


Courage

by Lola_di_Penates



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Astoria Greengrass Lives, Baby Scorpius Malfoy, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Good Draco Malfoy, Implied Sexual Content, Married Couple, POV Astoria Greengrass, POV Second Person, Pregnancy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22448809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lola_di_Penates/pseuds/Lola_di_Penates
Summary: It was always going to take something drastic for Draco Malfoy to find himself. Astoria has nine months to be pregnant. Draco has nine months to be courageous. Compliant with the epilogue (it's fine, I promise). Originally posted elsewhere.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. S is for Surprise

S is for Surprise

* * *

This is a story of love and loyalty, fearfulness and fearlessness and development.

It's not really a story of Scorpius Malfoy  _ (although, in the strictest sense it is) _ , but it is a story of childishness combined with very adult fears.

This is a story that in some ways, everyone is familiar with. Familiar because everyone has fears, and everyone has the ability to face them.

* * *

A note: I began writing this story well before the Cursed Child was released. Accordingly, many of the now-canon dates of birth are incorrect. Please forgive me. If it's any consolation, I don't regard the Cursed Child as canon, anyway.

* * *

You have never been the couple that was good at open communication. He preferred it that way, and you preferred it when he was happy. You spoke at length over certain issues, but only in a superficial sense and never daring to scratch the blackened surface which hid away things neither of you were comfortable with. Your normality had been carefully constructed. Designed to hide the past by casting an opaque sheet over the uncomfortable reminders of it in your everyday lives.

It had gotten to the point where it was neither a tango nor a salsa to carefully sidestep those issues in your daily conversation. It required neither tact nor grace; not even a sharp wit. It was utter normalcy, and in some ways it suited you.

_ (You had never been the wittiest of sorts anyway, you concede, although you fancied yourself as somewhat graceful.) _

There were times you wished that he was a little more conversational, perhaps a little less guarded, a little less careful. You imagined that if he were less like himself, he might have been more spontaneous, more passionate and more honest.

You always felt somewhat guilty about harbouring these feelings. After all, you were taught - amongst other pureblood lessons - the importance of maintaining strict indifference towards romance; the art of constructing the most impenetrable of disguises, the most motionless of masks. But beneath it all you felt most  _ human _ when somewhere in your chest begged to be  _ loved _ ; something he never seemed capable of or interested in.

It wasn't as if your marriage was arranged. You knew even before he proposed that he was unlikely to be the most attentive of husbands, and in some ways you enjoyed that. You liked the solitude it gave you, the ability to do things for yourself and have time to breathe. You were never one of those couples who clung to each other like a well-rehearsed sticking charm or who finished each other's sentences. You  _ loved  _ Draco Malfoy, and although at times it seemed illogical, you felt certain of that. You weren't sure he reciprocated that love, but you knew he liked you, which was more than anyone else he ever had contact with at the least.

An apt for communication was neither your strong point, nor a trait you suspected he valued in others, however in some cases you'd come to recognise it as absolutely necessary. You happened to have been in one of those situations, and it was one that was not easily addressed.

Fear wasn't the correct term, but there was some kind of trepidation you felt when you leant against the cool tiles of the bathroom thinking about it. He would never have physically maimed you in any sense, he was far too careful for that. But he never perfected the pureblood poker face, and he was often irrational and quick to temper in situations which he couldn't control.

You conceded that the matter in question was one of fairly drastic proportions. It was definitely and completely outside of his control. Outside of yours, really, in some ways. You were almost one hundred percent certain he had never banked on the fact, never even worried about the possibility that you would have fallen into this situation, because you'd never noticed it yourself either. Not until the symptoms themselves became exceedingly obvious, and a healer confirmed your suspicions.

You were  _ pregnant _ . For you at least, nothing felt more wonderful.

The sickness, the discomfort, the guilt you felt about lying to him about it for weeks now was worth nothing in the face of what grew  _ inside of you _ , getting stronger and evolving more every day, nurtured by your own body. Somebody who you didn't yet know, but that you  _ loved  _ already.

You knew that you were completely unprepared to be a mother, but you thought that if you tried your hardest, then you wouldn't be completely horrible at it. And if he wasn't prepared to be a father then maybe you could make up for that void.

That thought lingered uncomfortably in your stomach, and you lurched for the toilet bowl again.

~.~

You'd dressed, showered and rehearsed your lines over and over before he returned home. It was then that you found yourself completely unprepared. The dinner was forgotten, and even a quick wand waving couldn't disguise the fact that you'd neglected to organise something. He didn't seem to mind, in fact, he was in a rather good mood. Thanking Merlin, you managed to come up with something half-hearted before eight o'clock.

Dinner was better rehearsed than the phrases you'd turned over in your head all day. It was the same conversation; repeated and rephrased so many times you knew half of the answers to your own questions before you'd even asked them. He knew the conversation so well that he could calculate exactly how long he had to finish his meal before the conversation ran as dry as the bread you'd hastily shoved on the table.

Failing to find a gap in the normalcy to insert a conversation starter for more pressing news, you felt slightly disheartened when dinner came to an end and he thanked you softly with a chaste kiss on the forehead, before slipping off to the unused bedroom he'd converted into a library.

Following him in there wasn't a conceivable option, so you charmed the dishes to do themselves and swept around the house picking up and putting down items, feeling uncomfortably nervous as your heart pounded like the hooves of centaurs.

Finally, sick of it all, you carried yourself up the stairs into your bedroom and flopped back onto the bed in a sort of childish manner. Lying there was sort of relaxing; spread out on your back, pillows tossed haphazardly on the ground so your head lay on the cool sheets.

That's how he finally noticed you; eyes closed in contemplation, hand resting carefully over your fairly flat stomach, dark curls strewn out messily over the bed from when you'd flopped down. He just stood there at first, you could tell from his soft breathing, and you considered feigning sleep although you knew that was just an attempt to avoid facing him.

Eventually he cleared his throat almost awkwardly, and you opened your eyelids; eyes glued to the ceiling.

"You look tired," he offered, his voice sounding more detached than caring. The comment was simply one of those fillers he used to avoid uncomfortable silence or topics that were less desirable. You chose to ignore it. There were more pressing things to talk about, and perhaps it was the hormones, but you were beginning to grow tired of the circles you found yourself running in with him.

_ (Of course it had taken something so drastic to change that.) _

He looked so out of place standing at the side of the bed, shifting his weight uncomfortably, looking unsure about approaching you. He opted for sitting at the end of the bed near your feet whilst looking at you with a perplexed irritation, probably compounded by your lack of reply.

"You're not feeling well," he began again. A statement, rather than a question was something he used commonly. He offered you something to agree with rather than to elaborate on, but you'd decided not to allow yourself any way out of what you had to say.

"My health is adequate."

The phrase sounded so contrived and false when you thought about it. Perhaps you were both contrived at the time, your relationship had fallen into something forced and plastic, sugar coated and varnished with a clear lacquer.

"Then what is it?" he asked bluntly, face slightly stony.

And then the moment had come. You were rather hopeless with wit, and you supposed he was rather tactless, so it was unlikely this was going to be a comfortable conversation no matter how you presented it. If he was blunt, you figured you should be too, so you sat up gingerly on the bed, legs crossed and looked decisively at his pale face with sharp features.

"I'm pregnant," you announced, and the words tumbled out of your mouth with a lot more ease than you had expected.

There it was. An impromptu phrase, hanging between you, for the first time in months. For some reason the air seemed to be thicker than usual, tasting foreign and sticky in your mouth. You swallowed, feeling your saliva constricted by the hard lump swelling in your throat.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked, although it was evident he'd heard you clearly. His face was twisting into some kind of unflattering mix between shock, horror and anger.

It was rather exciting really, dangerous even. You hadn't really ever had a proper row.

"I'm pregnant," you repeated, firmly. You willed your pulse to slow down; your breathing to stop catching in your throat. It was a wild feeling; an anxiety laced with utter conviction.

"How?" The question sounded more like an accusation.

"Well, how do you think?" you replied, knowing very well that he hated rhetorical questions.

"I thought you had this covered," he spat, anger building, his jaw straining.

"Sometimes unexpected things happen; it's not always one hundred percent effective."

He paused, absorbing your words. The tension was palpable. If you had reached out to touch him, you were sure his skin would have burned you. The eyes, a usually disinterested grey-blue, brewed the colour of a storm cloud.

"This is your mistake."

"I don't think I managed to get pregnant on my own."

"I didn't neglect my side of the bargain."

"I wasn't aware that this was a concession or a trade-off."

"I thought I could trust you."

He stood up again from the bed, gesturing with rapid hand movements which both scared and amused you simultaneously. You admitted it was slightly thrilling fighting so clearly with him, although you couldn't say you enjoyed it.

"To do what exactly? I took all the precautions I could, it's not as if I'd planned this to trick you," you hissed.

He flexed his jaw again involuntarily and sat back down on the bed, staring at his hands.

"How are you going to fix this?" he asked; his voice cold and uncaring.

Your blood boiled. You weren't completely sure what he'd meant when he'd said "fix", but there was no way you would be deprived of something that made you feel so  _ complete _ . It wasn't  _ fair _ , and maybe if he'd stopped to pay you a bit of real attention, you thought, you wouldn't have felt so strongly about the living being that coexisted with you.

Draco didn't  _ understand _ . He had something to do all day, he wasn't lonely or bored or under stimulated. He didn't seem to care about being detached. He was loved by someone, even if he'd never cared to think about it.

" _ Fix _ this?"

Your voice was shrill at that point and sounded strange. You'd never thought you could make such a fuss over something; you'd never thought you'd have something worth making such a fuss over.

"Clearly you can't keep…it," he said, incredulous. "We're completely underprepared. I don't want a child and you can't take care of it yourself."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you don't know how. You've never been a mother before, have you?"

"And I suppose I must take classes before I become one?"

" _ If _ you ever become one," he corrected, "I'd rather know you'd be adequate first, yes."

"I'm sure I'd be adequate! Women have been doing this for the past two thousand years, Draco, it's not exactly a new concept!"

"Yes, but you're just not this sort of woman."

"Oh, considering that you know me far better than I know myself, please  _ enlighten me _ as to what kind of woman I am."

"I never claimed that," he snarled, side stepping the important question.

"But you think you should be able to  _ instruct _ me on the future of the child, rather than consult with me?"

"Well yes, it does happen to be my fucking problem as well as yours!" he yelled, turning to snap at you, your faces only inches apart. "In fact, it's more of my problem because now I have to bloody  _ convince _ you that it's a bad idea, before I even get to sorting out the main problem here! How can you be so blind, Astoria? We would make atrocious parents!"

"Why?" you challenged.

"Look at us!" he motioned, flipping his hands back and forth, gesturing to the two of you, "we don't have the money we used to,  _ you _ don't even work, what would everyone say? They'd know  _ it _ was unplanned."

"It's not about money, or work, you know neither of those are real problems, and when have you  _ ever _ given a toss about what anyone else thinks? The only opinion you care about is that of your blessed father and you  _ bloody well know _ he doesn't give a  _ fuck _ anymore."

"My father knows what's best for me."

"When are you  _ ever _ going to give up that mantra? Your father almost got you all killed, or have you forgotten about that slight in your history?"

"How dare you-"

"How dare you? How would you know anything about being a parent when you were brought up next to the Dark Lord and-"

"For fucks sake!" he almost screamed, and you stopped to catch your breath, just for a second. You stared at each other, face to face, noses separated by hot breath. His hands were pulling at his hair, yours were balled into fists. You looked more defiant and confident than you felt; he looked stressed and angry, frustrated and just a little bit broken.

"You said this was  _ my _ mistake," you began, "and maybe you're right. But if this is my mistake, then I get to choose how to deal with it, so you better decide what you're planning on doing, because I  _ will _ be having this child."

"I cannot  _ be _ a father Astoria."

"Well you can either learn, or you can find someone else who will appreciate your cowardice on that issue, but we all know what  _ daddy _ would think of the shame of breaking off your marriage."

"I'm not a coward."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not a fucking coward!"

"You don't want this because you're scared of it."

"It's a fucking  _ baby _ , not the apocalypse."

"You're driven by fear Draco. It's the reason you've never said a word against your father-"

"Stop it."

"-it's the reason you used to hulk around with those dim-witted thugs at Hogwarts-"

"Shut up, Astoria."

"-it's the reason you joined the Death Eaters; the reason you shut yourself off from people; the reason you never admit that you're wrong-"

"Shut the fuck up!"

And you did, only because that time he sounded different. Crackly almost, like you'd finally worn him down, to something beyond the opaque sheet.

He breathed heavily, pulling his face away from yours and staring at the ceiling. You realised that he was blinking back the moisture which pooled at the edge of his eyes. He pulled the back of his arm hastily across them and turned back to face you, eyes looking a darker, more a grey sort of blue, the skin below them adorned with dark, tired-looking circles.

"I don't know how to be a father."

"We already addressed this-"

"No, I mean, I don't know how to be a  _ good _ father."

"You don't want to try though, so how on earth do you expect to be one?"

"Even if I tried."

"Why not?"

He seemed to balk at this comment, and simply raised his eyes to yours in a defeated manner.

"Look at me, Astoria."

The phrase was pleading, almost desperate, something you'd never heard tumble from his lips. It was foreign and strange, and yet somehow pleasant, like you'd pried open the hard exterior to find a precious pearl.

"I don't know how to be a good  _ person _ , let alone a good father. I used to be a Death Eater for Merlin's sake. I have a huge black tattoo on my lower forearm, if my surname isn't enough of a giveaway. The child would be cursed from the day it would be born just for  _ being _ a Malfoy. It's as bad as being a Black, which technically, I am as well."

He exhaled heavily and ran his thumb nervously over his lip.

"When it comes to children, all I know about my own childhood was getting presents and money and travelling and not being allowed to say anything lest it ruin my parents sparkling reputation. Or being left at home with blasted  _ Dobby _ who was forever trying to lock himself in the oven. I wouldn't know what to  _ do _ with a child Astoria, I wouldn't know how to treat them, or how to act.

"I don't know the first thing about showing  _ affection _ or  _ love _ , surely you would know that better than anyone else. I couldn't make it happy, I couldn't make it love me or want me. I probably wouldn't even be able to remember its fucking birthday, so the only thing I actually learnt as a child would be useless."

This seemed to exert all his energy and he bit his lip childishly, his hands clasped in his lap and looking straight at the wall to the right of the bed.

"You could try Draco, which would be better than nothing. I would rather have that than do it on my own."

After an unbroken silence he stood, as if to excuse himself from the uncomfortable situation, and walked towards the door stiffly.

"Are you leaving?"

"No" he sighed, rubbing one eye with his fingers. "I'll be downstairs for a while. Go to bed and we'll discuss this in the morning."

"That's not going to make you fear it less," you called down to him as he descended the stairs evenly.

You thought you might have heard him pause, just for a second, before he disappeared into the hall and you flopped back onto the bed, exhausted but triumphant.


	2. C is for Clatter

C is for Clatter

* * *

For being in love, and still managing to have ridiculously big rows.

* * *

Madame Malkin's might not have been your first stop for adventure, but it was enough to satisfy your thirst for a change of scenery. The walls of the house were beginning to suffocate you, and anything different from them would be welcomed to alleviate your growing restlessness. However, you were surprised Draco had requested your company to Diagon Alley in the first place; he'd been more distant than usual over the past three weeks that had passed since your argument.

At first, it was as upsetting as it was uncomfortable. Conversation was hard to come by when there were only two occupants of the house, one of whom was resolutely silent. However non-stimulating as it may have been, you admitted then that you enjoyed his company, even if it was slightly artificial.

However, in some way you thought it beneficial. The decision you had made had clearly turned things inside out, and you hoped that instead of pushing him permanently away, you'd simply rocked the boat enough to get it out of the rut you had found yourselves in. Life without Draco seemed disturbing enough, even if your relationship lacked the passion and love that came with a successful marriage; you needed each other to stay afloat. A part of you had a premonition that things could be  _ different _ , could be  _ more,  _ if you only gave him a push in the right direction.

_ (Or maybe more of a forceful shove.) _

Before marrying him, your mother had warned you that one couldn't change a man. That by this age things were  _ expected _ of you, and that you should be wary of tying yourself to someone that had an  _ unfortunate _ past and  _ questionable _ activities. Someone that would be almost inevitably cast out in one way or another. You suppose she thought you would try and change his attitude towards the past; make him lighter, perhaps less tainted by the experience.

But you'd never shared the thoughts of your mother and your family. You'd never thought for a second that Draco was simply a pawn in an unfortunate chess game, a series of bad moves made by someone else that just happened to affect him. Draco was a part of that change, a part of that life, which was why you concluded that it clearly had such a profound effect on him. A Draco that was just in the wrong place at the wrong time wouldn't hold the losses of so many on his shoulders the way he did.

It was clearly difficult trying to piece it all back together, being hated by his past peers for escaping punishment, being outcast by the victors for being a part of it all. It was even more difficult, you saw, for him to exist in a world where the ideals pressed down on him by his father didn't fit in. Where there was no longer a higher status for someone with purer blood. Too often, you found him stopping mid-conversation to force himself out of saying 'mudblood' or 'blood traitor' as a prefix for people's names..

He was confused, somehow. But you saw the confusion hidden under layers of lies and arrogance, his natural reaction to shame and fear. On the outside he had changed dramatically. On the inside he was a mess, struggling to rebuild himself in a way to which he was not accustomed, still refusing to admit that he was  _ wrong _ all along, and that he was unsure of the changes that had occurred all around him.

Draco didn't need to change, you knew that. You knew just as well that any effort to change him would be, as your mother had correctly identified, futile. What he did need was some kind of epiphany, the opportunity to  _ find _ himself, and that forceful shove you had envisaged yourself administering had in fact been administered by something no – someone – that wasn't even independently formed yet. Such incredible change was bound to make him realise something, or so you'd hoped.

Looking at him standing in front of the mirror of the shop in tailored robes, you realised he resembled less of his old self than he ever had. He was worn and weary, spending more time working with Blaise at his offices in London, in order to avoid thinking about other things. He'd organised for you to see Blaise's friend, a healer, in relation to _that_ _problem_ , but you'd never attended the appointment. You knew what he would have tried to persuade you into doing anyway, and you wouldn't have had any of it.

The tailor bustled around him, pinning and unpinning with simple wandwork as he stood motionless. You internally pleaded for an excuse to go outside. Old family money would surely pay for something new, but you had to get to Gringotts first, and he was oddly  _ thingy _ about you travelling around on your own.

"Draco, would you mind if I headed over to Flourish and Blotts for a few moments?"

Surely a book store would have been tame enough for him to acquiesce. You never really were an avid reader, but it would supply an excuse to go and look at more exciting things, and a chance to stretch your legs. Perhaps you'd even look into buying an owl. You hadn't owned one in months, and although you really had no one but Daphne to write to, a pet might have soothed the loneliness that bothered you at home.

"I expect I'll have finished in thirty minutes," he murmured, careful to avoid movement as the tailor worked, "will you be done by then?"

"Of course," you replied, and wasted no time darting out onto the street, sunlight washing over your face like an old friend.

It was pleasantly warm for November, and you floated down the cobbled streets towards the imposing façade of Gringotts. Stopping briefly to dig out the old rusted key from the swathes of your robes you produced it for the presiding Goblin, deducted twenty galleons from the vault and made your way back to the streets.

The owl emporium was rather smelly from last memory, so you thought it prudent to actually visit Flourish and Blotts beforehand. Pretending to be interested in the various volumes that lined the shelves was more difficult than one would think. Scanning your eyes over various titles including potion making and charms work, you tried to settle on something vaguely intriguing. Running a finger down the spine of a mildly interesting one on household charms, you found yourself interrupted by a lithe witch with rich, red hair.

"Sorry, do you mind if I grab the one next to that?" she asked politely, running her eyes absentmindedly over the title near your left hand.

"Of course not. Although I think the pages are a little bent, I had a look at it a few minutes ago," you smiled, handing it over to her, scanning her face for confirmation of the feeling of recognition you got.

"I'll probably take it anyway," she grinned. "I'm absolutely rubbish at household charms and I need all the help I can get, honestly."

"As do I," you lied, trying to keep the conversation going long enough for your brain to catch which classmate this girl was. "I don't believe I was ever taught how to be a good housewife at Hogwarts; it was never promoted as a career choice, I suppose."

She laughed, flicking the pages through her long fingers, "I wouldn't have minded parenting classes either, might have helped me sleep for more than four minutes a night."

"Oh, lovely," you smiled, feeling a warmth spread all over you at the sight of what you guessed to be a very young infant in a deep blue cradle, which the witch had levitated and charmed to rock methodically in mid-air.

"I hope that's sarcasm," she replied, "I prefer at least eight hours or I roughly resemble a troll for the rest of the day."

Recognising your mistake you felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment, "No sorry, I meant the child, he, or she is beautiful."

"He," she clarified, smiling broadly, "and yes he is, but an absolute terror to look after, really. Children are not for light sleepers. Rocking charms are what keeps me sane, I swear."

Looking down at the child, you realised it had never looked so easy. The baby slept soundly, its head turned to the side, with its arms at its sides, tiny pink lips slightly ajar and purple veined eyelids closed peacefully. It had a smooth, bald head, but you guessed it would probably contain rich red hairs before long.

Somewhere above your stomach twisted, as though longing itself was a physical sense, and you felt a strange sort of companionship with the woman. Your smile involuntarily widened as you reminded yourself that you'd have something just as beautiful in just another seven months.

"Sorry for being so blunt, but I get this strange feeling that I know you from somewhere," you began; figuring honesty was probably the best policy, "were we in the same class?"

"Ginny," she smiled, reaching out to shake your hand. "I left in 1999, but you'd probably know me because of my husband's exploits. I really did try to avoid that by lopping all this off," she sighed, grasping at the ends of her short, pixie-cut hair.

For a moment you forgot completely who you were, standing fixated on the child in the crib, and listening animatedly to the first person you'd really had an in-depth conversation with, in weeks. Then the pit in your stomach opened up, and you remembered that you were a Malfoy, and that instead of avoiding the likes of Ginny Potter like you would have at school, she would probably would have avoided you had it not been for blissful anonymity.

_ (Draco would still probably murder you in six different ways if he found out.) _

"Ginny Weasley?" you feigned ignorance, plastering another smile over your face.

"Potter now, I suppose," she said, missing your artificial facial expression, "and so sorry, but I can't say the same for you. You are?"

"I was in the year below you. I'm Astoria Greengrass."

It was a reflex action, and right then you couldn't have put your finger on why you automatically reached for your maiden name. It was as if Greengrass was easier, tumbled across your lips, and sounded better in the moment. You internally wrestled with the guilt. It was simply because she wouldn't have remembered your real surname from school, but of course she would have. She would have associated it with all the wrong things too, and that's what really kept it from coming out. You were ashamed, and you were scared.

_ (And perhaps, just then, you were even more like Draco than either of you suspected.) _

"Lovely to meet you in the camaraderie of household hopelessness."

And the moment of internal tension was gone, replaced by a kind of hopefulness. It felt sort of pathetic and desperate, but at the same time giddy, like a child.

Before she could say anything else, another woman rounded the corner, clutching several volumes and looking frazzled.

"Couldn't help me out here for a second could you, Gin?" she groaned, blowing a stray, light brown curl out of her eyes while attempting to relieve herself of the books into a nearby basket.

"Simple levitation was too much for the great Hermione?" the redhead teased, pulling out her wand and levitating them to their destination.

"Forgot my wand," the brunette rolled her eyes. "I forget everything these days. This beast has ruined my brain," she said, poking her slightly rounded belly in amusement.

"Don't remind me. Al turned her brain to mush less than one month in. She kept forgetting where she left her toothbrush before someone asked her if she'd tried 'Accio' yet," followed a tall and slim man, with an iconic jagged scar on his forehead and round frame glasses that made him look like he still could have been attending Hogwarts.

Harry Potter was, of course, recognisable in every way. You'd seen him on posters and hand-outs at Diagon Alley; in person many times at school, seated on the far side of the Great Hall with all the other Gryffindors. You'd always remembered him as painfully serious and solemn, but standing right in front of you he looked far less so, smiling and exchanging playful remarks with his wife and friend.

"Sorry," Ginny broke your train of thought. "This is  _ the _ Harry Potter. Don't believe the stories - even I can beat him at Quidditch," she smirked, flourishing her hands towards her husband.

"Astoria," you replied, leaving out the last name all together. "I think I went to Hogwarts with you, although I was a couple of years younger."

You prayed the anonymity would stand, recognising that both Hermione and Harry were employed by the Ministry.

"Nice to meet you," he smiled politely, shaking your hand firmly. If he recognised the name, he didn't show it.

"Hermione Weasley," the other witch said, reaching out her hand from behind the pile of books she was arranging in a stack.

"I see you've been imprisoned by Mother's Club," Harry offered, dodging a friendly punch on the arm from his wife, "have they stopped complaining yet?"

"Very willingly imprisoned," you smiled, hoping it concealed the anxiety forming in the pit of your stomach. "Your son is lovely. Sorry, but what did you say his name was again?"

"Oh no Potter, you take this one. I wholeheartedly disagreed with giving our son such a prehistoric name," Ginny smirked. "I can't imagine the teasing he'll endure at Hogwarts, and the adoration from all the professors - it will be sickening."

"It's very respectful!" Harry protested, his lips twitching into a grin. "His name is Albus Severus."

You could almost imagine Draco's exact words upon hearing that.  _ Of course Potter would try and win favour from the dead _ . You pushed it to the back of your mind decisively, although you couldn't quite stop your eyebrows from reflexively raising.  _ Albus Severus _ . You wondered what Snape would have made of that.

"I told him it was a bad idea," Ginny offered, "and I was hoping to call him something else in secret. But unfortunately it stuck."

"It sort of suits him," you smiled, leaning over the little cradle at the stirring child, mesmerised by his tiny hands and short breaths. "How old-"

"Astoria."

You thought you were going to have an aneurysm hearing his voice so suddenly, and you snapped your head away from the cradle as fast as your heart leapt to your throat.

He stood at the end of the row of bookshelves, his jaw taut and his face stony. For a moment, you felt the urge to run, to let your legs carry you away from him, standing so still and threatening. You felt a red blush rise to your cheeks and the hot sweat of embarrassment fill you. All of a sudden, you found the floor very interesting.

"Malfoy," Harry spoke, filling the silence. Strangely, he said it neither condescendingly, nor with any hatred. It was simply an acknowledgement, like some kind of agreement had been struck between them and their acquaintance was strictly neutral.

"Potter," Draco returned. Embarrassingly, it didn't have the same impartiality in tone. It was more forgiving than she'd ever heard him; however Draco had never inherited his father's soft, aristocratic superiority, and his voice sounded plainly malicious instead, pronouncing the 'r' with a sort of sneer.

Feeling thoroughly caught-out by everyone involved, you decided to cut the tension which hung thick around you, and began your awkward shuffle towards him, like a demure child who had been caught stealing every-flavoured-beans from their sibling.

"Lovely to meet you all," you offered, raising your eyes to Harry and hoping he would find some kind of silent apology in them.

"Pleasure,: he replied, and you were surprised to find the dislike you anticipated was replaced by something else. Something that looked horribly like pity.

~.~

Draco attempted to drag you along Diagon Alley to the Apparition point, but you fought off his grasp, trying to maintain some of your pride. Your internal monologue became so intense you wondered whether he should be dragging you to St. Mungos instead.

Was it so bad to be caught  _ talking _ to people? Even if it was Harry Potter and a few of his friends. Even if they were Gryffindors. Even if they were the epitome of victorious while your husband was the personification of failure. Was it such a sin?

You supposed it didn't matter in his eyes. His pride was even greater than that of yours, even when they had so little, collectively, to be proud about. He was likely, you reasoned, to see this as the ultimate betrayal.

Back at the house, he rounded on you. Draco never initiated arguments, he either sneered in obvious disagreement, or you sat in silence. There was never the explosion that erupted that afternoon, as soon as they'd gotten within the wrought iron gates, and past the overgrown hedge.

"What were you doing _?" _ he hissed, marching down the path.

"Being friendly," you replied, almost in a whisper to keep from the neighbours hearing, notwithstanding the closest neighbour lived half a mile away.

"To Potter?" he snapped. "Never knew you two were so  _ close _ ."

"We'd never even  _ met _ ."

"Oh and I can only imagine the special occasion," he bit back. "He's got a son now, hasn't he? Another one. No one can shut up about it. Merlin knows why, the world doesn't  _ need _ another saviour like Potter, if you ask me."

"You did," you retorted, under your breath, but he heard you and spun you around, right outside the front door.

"What did you say?" his voice was low, menacing.

"Nothing."

"Fuck you," he replied, slamming the door open and marching in, flinging his cloak to the floor and reaching up to pull at his hair.

You felt a surge of something  _ hot _ fill you, constricting your throat in anger. You let it build for a moment and then struck again, harsh words tumbling out of your mouth in response. If he was going to attack, then surely you couldn't be expected to let the sleeping dogs lie.

"If anyone should be fawning over Potter, shouldn't it be you?" you challenged, anger swelling inside you, "didn't he save you from a Death Eater, even though you were one of them?"

"My mother saved him from the Dark Lord _ himself _ in the forbidden forest, so I think we're square."

"Somehow I don't think the actions of others equate as yours, Draco. Stop hiding behind her," you sneered, surprising yourself with the malice that laced itself into your tone. You realised you wanted him to  _ hurt.  _ You wanted your words to slash across him as deeply as his could cut you.

"Potter's not a saint, and if you think he is, you're just as fucked up everyone else who fawns over him."

"Fawns?" you replied incredulously. "Well, if that's the case, imagine what people must say about my association with  _ you _ !"

"Why did you bother marrying me then Astoria? You would have done everyone favours by remaining a boring Greengrass, perhaps you could have snatched up Potter? Or perhaps Longbottom?"

"Jealousy doesn't flatter you."

"Jealous of Longbottom? You're more stupid than you look."

"You're far duller than Longbottom. You can't even speak to me without going through things we've discussed four hundred times before. You are so under stimulating it's embarrassing. It's a wonder you ever managed to get me pregnant at all."

"You're disgracefully ungrateful Greengrass. As for  _ that _ certain snag, sorting it out was the best option, was it not? Being as this household is –  _ under stimulating _ – it surely would have developed incorrectly, which would probably also be my fault."

"Sorted what out?" you challenged, lifting your chin to look him square in the face. Your jaw flexed with the tension. Your muscles, insignificant as they may have been, twitched with anticipation like a cat ready to spring.

He stood stock still, breath heaving in and out of his chest, eyes more wild than you'd ever seen them. His jaw was clenched so tight you wondered whether his teeth were crumbling under themselves, his hair stood at odd angles from where he had torn at it.

He looked legitimately murderous. "You never went to that appointment did you?" he forced out between closed teeth.

No reply was necessary.

"What have you  _ done,  _ Astoria?"

"Are you referring to the fact that I will simply not _ allow  _ your fear to dictate what I do or do not do with my own body?"

"I don't want to be a _fucking_ _father_ Astoria! I don't want your baby, I don't want you in my house, I don't owe Potter _shit_ and I'M NOT FUCKING SCARED."

"You're wrong."

He roared in frustration, and before it had even registered in your brain, he had overturned the giant mahogany table, sliding all the silverware and vases off, crashing to the stone floor and shattering into a million pieces of glass.

For a moment the world stopped, and the pieces of clear, glassy matter winked in the sunlight casting rainbow prisms of light that splashed the walls like technicolour wallpaper. The silver serving plates clattered noisily to the floor, spinning in warped circles until they found their proper place. The white table runner lay strewn amongst the clutter, looking strangely innocent amongst the mess that lay around it.

When time resumed, he was gone.

~.~

You woke with a wet face, the tears sliding down your nose and cheeks and embedding themselves into your hair. You felt almost weightless, and then you realised that it was more like lightheaded. You opened your eyes a fraction, and then tightly shut them, feeling the world spinning around you in a hazy stream of light.

You could feel the cool sheets below your spine and thighs, as well as the softness of the pillow pressed beside your face, its creases making harsh lines on your cheek. Something warm was behind you, solid and real, and when you rolled your head to the left slightly, your face melted into the soft, fabric swathe of robes. They smelt familiarly like the peppermint soap you had in the shower and the nameless, but recognisable cologne. It was comfortable and familiar, until you opened your eyes and dreamily stared above you.

The lights, still woozy above you had entranced you, so all you saw at first was a black mass of robes and a pale blob, a face without features. Your limbs felt heavy and useless, fatigued from anger, hurt and frustration and you probably couldn't have risen if you tried. You stared back up at his face, suddenly noticing that the wetness that ran down your cheeks hadn't fallen from your eyes.

The truth was that you'd never seen Draco  _ really _ cry. He wasn't one for raw emotions. He was one to closet emotions and feelings away with the truth, and set them on fire so they'd never return, instead of simply locking the door. The tears plodded down heavily on your cheeks, and ran off you like little streams of guilt and regret, budding again in the corners of his grey eyes. He breathed heavily, not as if to sob, but simply to survive, looking at you and back at himself like he couldn't quite comprehend who you were;  _ what  _ you were.

There was a long silence, as his sharp cheekbones and mussed blond hair came into focus, partially obstructed by the morning sun. It was as if neither of you had known what to say, or how to say it. He had never apologised before, it wasn't like Draco to do so, and you wondered if he was trying to make you understand; to know he was apologetic, just so he wouldn't have to force the words out of his mouth. You wouldn't settle for that, and it was plain. The silence wrapped you up and constricted you, every word he didn't say forcing a strange lump in your throat onwards, your teeth setting together uncomfortably.

Indignantly, you turned your head back to its pillow and flipped your body away from his. It was a fluid movement, something to display your discontent. Pride had grown on you and it was a fickle thing.

He tentatively rested a hand on your back, spreading his fingers and running them up and down your spine rhythmically. It soothed you, and involuntarily you arched into his touch, craving the shivering sensations that were spreading across your body. Truth be told, you hated it when he left you. You needed each other in some warped way. When he stormed off or when you constructed walls to hide you and hurt him, the earth seemed to spin off its axis, everything was left awkward and cold. Loneliness suited neither of you.

The world felt misaligned at that moment. A moment where he looked so unlike himself; so weak and incapable. Guilt wracked his features as a hand instinctively rose to his hair, tugging at the back of it as if it would relieve the stress. You felt like you had to protect him in that moment. Like he didn't really know what he was doing or where he was going, and you were going to make it all okay again.

"I don't know what I'm doing Astoria" he whispered, slicing the tension open softly.

"Neither do I."

"I told you" he started, "I told you I'd be an atrocious parent."

You didn't agree, but you let the silence wash over you. It was a statement that needed no confirmation, and you knew he wasn't looking for a rebuttal; he wanted to persuade you that he couldn't, that he  _ wouldn't. _

"I can't be what you want or what my father wanted, and I can't make you happy Astoria. If I can't make you happy, imagine what chance I have with whatever is in you right now. I have no chance.

"And maybe you're right. Maybe I am…scared. I can't be the hero like Potter and  _ illogically _ put other people before myself. People like that, they've always been fucking  _ better _ than me, and all I had is my money and my power and my respectability and now I can't even have that."

Somewhere in the tangle of words, you think there was an apology of sorts. It was hidden behind defensive words and frustrated enunciation, but it was there, and for now you'd let it slide.

He dragged his cloak over his eyes and you expected to feel some kind of intrinsic adulation at being  _ right _ about his fear. But nothing was right in that moment, nothing was right about you, and nothing was right about him. If you cut back all the layers that you each constructed, you found fear and anger, and an overwhelming loneliness that resonated between you and drew you together.

You didn't say anything then, mostly because you didn't have an answer to his statement. A small part of you thought at that moment you might have actually been going a bit loopy.

He bent down and kissed you softly on the forehead, just as he did after every dinner, and you smiled involuntarily.

"We never have to fight again."

_ (And you almost felt like telling him that would be incessantly boring and that you preferred fighting to pretending.) _

"I need you," he murmured.

It wasn't quite 'I love you,' but just then, it was enough.


	3. O is for Overtness

O is for Overtness

* * *

For being blunt and not drinking too much whisky.

* * *

The truth of the matter was, no one knew what was happening. That was clear from the beginning. The facts, however, sought to undermine Draco's blissful ignorance, with a snowballing of events which could only have been the product of a growing foetus. Unfortunately for Draco, wishing the problem would  _ just disappear _ was about as futile as arguing over the matter.

And so, with the self-imposed dark cloud of inevitability hanging over his head, Draco's protests gradually subsided over the following days into tactless comments and incoherent mutterings. It was clear that he had no desire to provoke another outburst, but, true to his form, also had no intent to elaborate on, resolve, or discuss the matter in any way. It was so  _ Draco _ to pursue the path of avoidance, whilst making his disenchantment with you extraordinarily plain.

That was not to say that he completely avoided  _ you _ , simply the  _ topic _ , which had thus far managed to remain just below the surface of your significantly less superficial day-to-day contact. It had managed to remain so until that Friday in mid-February, when circumstances began to force their way upon you – very physically.

Friday  _ was _ to be an extraordinary day of sorts, anyway. The argument of January (never to be mentioned again by a solid non-verbal pact), had somewhat alleviated your loneliness. It might have been the guilt of upsetting you and breaking the prize dining room table, but you preferred to think of it as his conscience, which drove Draco to begin an effort to make life a little less dull, for the both of you. After Daphne had written with the news that she would be attending the annual Puddlemere United and Tutshill Tornadoes exhibition match with her devoted (an undeniably sickening) husband, Draco had revelled in the challenge of usurping their Ministry Box invitations.

You supposed it was something of an old school rivalry, but Theodore and Draco had never seen eye-to-eye again after your sister's wedding. Of course, it had begun far before that, probably fostered by mother's doting over the  _ appropriateness _ of Daphne's choice in fiancé, and your slightly  _ undesirable  _ pick. Family affairs at the Greengrass estate had always been very refined, but beneath the chink of china and the scraping of fine silver, an undeniable competition had ensued.

Theodore's father practically  _ owned _ the broom-making business. Draco's father owned half of Wizarding England, but then again, as Nott hadn't hesitated to point out, Lucius had also owned a cell in Azkaban. Draco had no siblings to divide up an illustrious estate with, but then again, Theodore had  _ drive _ and  _ passion _ , indicated, as mother had pointed out, by his willingness to occupy an influential Ministry position. Holding down employment was not exactly Draco's forte.

So it had continued, until the day when that letter arrived, and Draco had  _ somehow _ managed to procure tickets from an Auror – of which he wouldn't name - one of the world's greatest ironies. But as it was, you found the motive behind such actions wasn't as important, as you were finally given the chance to engage in something half exciting.

Unfortunately that morning, your body had other plans.

Rolling over into the cloudy mass of pillows which adorned your bed, your eyes opened that morning glancing up at the high, white ceiling. Shafts of morning sunlight streamed over your body, bathing you in the satisfying, winter brilliance.

Stretching your arms gingerly above your head and pointing and flexing your toes, you roused your body into consciousness, and prepared to brave the slightly-too-cold stone floors. That was, until your hands found their way onto your stomach.

You inhaled shortly as your lithe fingers ran over the definite raise in your abdomen, alien under the comfortable feeling of your own skin. You supposed that it was simply a product of the weight-gain associated with pregnancy before, but when you had laid out and properly stretched, it was obvious that the lump was more than a simple excess of fatty tissue. It was  _ hard _ almost, as if a band stretched out across your lower stomach. You gave it a curious prod.

Revelling in the foreignness of it all, you stood just as gingerly (gasping slightly at the temperature change the floors brought), and padded into the adjoining bathroom, plucking your wand from the bedside table on the way. Vain as it may have been, you flourished the twelve inches of willow and smiled, satisfied, as the brown mass of curls contorted themselves into a neat ponytail of ringlets, stretching from the crown of your heat to your shoulder blades. In some ways, it was the one thing that Hogwarts had taught you to meticulously perfect.

Wriggling the creased, satin slip which you used as a nightgown above your hips, you stared back at your reflection, dissatisfied when the change you could  _ feel _ was not immediately obvious. Pacing into different positions in front of the mirror, you attempted to examine it from all angles until you were satisfied that you weren't simply imagining things. You supposed sixteen weeks was probably later-than-usual to be showing but you had always had a rather overactive imagination. You had to be sure you weren't daydreaming.

If you were even slightly honest with yourself, you  _ knew _ that he probably wouldn't have been appeased by this new revelation. However, starved as you were of any other outlet, you all but skipped down the staircase to the dining room, where you found him, pumpkin juice and coffee set out in front of him and the Daily Prophet obscuring his face.

At the sound of your footsteps he collapsed the sheets of paper with moving pictures slightly, just enough to expose his face, blonde hair combed fastidiously over his forehead, and reading glasses balanced on his slim nose. He always maintained the ability to make you feel significantly under prepared. Feeling an odd surge of self-consciousness, you reached one hand up to feel the pillow creases which still adorned the left side of your face and the other to tug down on the rising hem of your night-gown. He raised one blonde eyebrow in bemusement, the shadow of a smirk playing on his lips.

"Good god Astoria, did you  _ really _ just fall out of bed and down the staircase?"

Furrowing your eyebrows slightly at his jibe, you pressed down the flimsy piece of fabric covering your body, ignoring the annoying flush of embarrassment threatening to flood your cheeks.

"Never mind your under-dress, thank Merlin you managed to attend to your hair," he continued, noticing your discomfort. As irritating as it was, the playful manner in which he addressed you was refreshing. Draco had rarely had the inclination to act so similar to his school-boy self since your marriage – since the war in fact, which had seemed to suck something vital out of him.

"I wanted to show you something," you began, hand instinctively covering the lump.

His eyes followed the movement; his gaze resting intently over the pale flesh of your upper thighs and the curve of your hips, barely noticeable under the swathe of satin. The look in the grey irises broke into your consciousness with a renewed curiosity. There was a sort of hunger to their gaze, a kind of intention that they had not shown in some time…

And then it was gone, covered by a cloudy indifference, as they rested on the emerging lump you had exposed with your fingers, taught across the satin fabric.

"Lovely, Astoria," he replied, flicking the newspaper back up indignantly.

Realising what a mistake it was to even broach the topic with someone who was so uninterested, you quickly released the shift and patted it down over your thighs, your face falling. Of course it was erroneous to think that Draco  _ cared. _ He might have cared what would happen to you, but so far he had been exceptionally plain about his feelings towards the child.

Hot tears prickled at the sides of your eyes for some reason. You would have put it down to pregnancy hormones, but that wouldn't have saved you any embarrassment. Next time, the news would be sent to Daphne in a letter – without the instant gratification and excitement, but excitement none-the-less which was more than you ever received from Draco.

Turning brusquely on your heel you felt a surge of childishness. As your heavy footfalls stomped up the staircase again, your discontent only became plainer, and you felt somewhat like throwing something into a wall and watching it break with your resolve.

~.~

Honestly, you really despised Quidditch. Your social schedule and school work always managed to miraculously coincide with Quidditch matches during Hogwarts, and you'd never recalled an overwhelming sense of house pride when Slytherin had won matches. The only worthwhile component of them seemed to be the dungeon parties, and even they had grown tedious over the years. Not to mention that more often than not, it was bleak disappointment that filled the common room. Gryffindor always seemed to have the uncanny ability to procure large amounts of luck when it came to their matches. You thought perhaps it had something to do with Potter's seeking; he always managed to capture the snitch in the most unconventional of ways.

However, despite any previous ignorance, the thought of a professional exhibition match sparked a sense of excitement. It meant a sort of benign and innocent adventure that you took too much for granted in your childhood. Daphne would also be there, which despite her egotism, would at least provide you with a few hours of stimulating conversation and shameful gossip.

Gossip was in some ways, exactly what you required. A distraction from the uncomfortable, mutual frustration which was sparked by that morning's incident. Instead, it would be a familiar dip into the world which you had left – something that you didn't wholeheartedly regret, but undoubtedly missed.

The luxury of close friends, for one. When you married a hermit, you tended to unintentionally cut off your own relationships with others. There were no more old and proper tea parties, formal occasions, or even casual dinner dates. You supposed that Millicent Bulstrode and Cassiopeia Vance barely remembered your name, let alone thought about your past escapades at such events. You were dissolved into a shadow, a background piece of useless history that no one cared to remember. In some ways, you couldn't blame them. Your choice to marry was entirely your fault.

"Are you ready?" he asked, stiffly leaning against the balustrade along the staircase.

"Naturally," you replied, letting the irritation slip fluidly into your speech.

He descended the stairs carefully, smoothing his suit jacket with one hand when he reached the bottom, and grasping his cane in the other. His attempts to emulate Lucius were almost ridiculous. It wasn't that he looked outrageous, rather, he didn't seem to  _ fit _ that demeaning and highly narcissistic character. It was as if he didn't quite believe it enough himself to exude it with confidence.

Extending an arm towards you, he faltered. Frowning slightly in obvious disapproval he cocked a sarcastic, blonde eyebrow.

"Are you going to at least  _ pretend _ to enjoy the comforts of an upper-class lifestyle, Astoria?"

"For you, anything," you replied icily, and grasping his arm, you twisted on the spot momentarily before your feet left the floor.

~.~

As it turned out, you enjoyed the game more than you probably ever had done. Perhaps it was the context of your relatively limited lifestyle which made you appreciate such things, or maybe the fact that you had matured considerably over the course of the years and a life-changing war. Either way, Quidditch seemed far more enjoyable that day.

Daphne had, as it turned out, come down with a bad case of scrofungulus two days previously, so aside from Pansy Parkinson's idle chatter which had alerted you to this particular fact, there was little, substantial gossip to be enjoyed.

Aside from Parkinson, who had stopped only for a short and Draco-centric chat, no one else had bothered to approach you in the Ministry stands. At first, it seemed as if it was Draco which deterred them, however after he took the invitation to accompany Blaise to the balcony for a cigarette, it had become evident that perhaps it was simply  _ you _ . Chalking it up to simple ignorance ( _ you were rather plain in some ways) _ ; you sat there patiently, idly pulling one loose curl around your finger and fiddling with your wand.

It was only when you stood to use the bathroom (simply for something to  _ do _ ), that a gentle tap on the shoulder had alleviated you from your boredom. Spinning around, you faced the familiar red-haired and youthful face of Ginny Potter, and simultaneously felt the faint flush of embarrassment creep up to your cheekbones. The last (and only) time you had spoken had ended awkwardly.

Fortunately, she struck you as having that kind of demeanour which seemed to brush such awkward things aside. Perhaps it was the product of having six brothers which made her immune to that kind of social discomfort, or the fact that she was a  _ Weasley _ , which undoubtedly left her in a position for being ostracised. Despite that, she didn't seem to  _ care _ , which was sort of admirable, in a way. In some ways, you wished you had that ability to throw caution to the wind, and engage in things which other people might have degraded you for. It was a very Gryffindor trait.

"Astoria," she smiled warmly, sticking out her hand.

This motion struck you as strange. Usually it was the men that greeted each other with a handshake, and personally, you'd never been approached with one, nor did you know what constituted a  _ bad _ or  _ good _ handshake, although you'd heard it being discussed before. Usually women of pureblood society greeted each other with a curt nod, or if you were particularly well acquainted, a chaste kiss on the cheek. Ginny Potter, you realised, was a very strange sort of woman. You decided that you liked that, taking her hand and giving it a soft shake.

"Walk with me," she continued, not waiting for a verbal recognition from you before taking your arm and leading you out the door of the box. Before you knew it, she had apparated you to outside the stands, into a park area which adjoined the stadium. A muggle couple walked past a few hundred metres off, completely ignorant to the large, domineering structure in the middle of the countryside.

Immediately grateful that you had put on your cloak to go to the bathroom, and that pregnancy kept you in a permanent state of uncomfortable warmth, you wrapped your arms around you as the cold air swirled around your face.

"Sorry," she apologised. "I wanted to talk to you, and it tends to be rather  _ loud _ in there."

"Of course," you stated, still a little shaken up from the speed in which she had kidnapped you.

"How are you then?" she asked, taking your arm again and walking slowly along the path that ran around the stadium.

You felt oddly at ease with the woman, who was, after all, a stranger to you. The air was thick with unspoken secrets that you had hidden for years by yourself: the boredom and loneliness in your relationship, the unknown fate of your child, the fact that Draco was becoming so detached it wasn't clear if he would allow it to be raised under his roof. All of those unspoken words threatened to tumble from your lips into her ear, simply because you  _ had _ no one else to tell. You needed, at that moment, someone that would really listen; someone that would care, even in the slightest.

"Fine," you smiled, thinly. It was the typical, socially correct thing for you to say. It wouldn't be proper for you to continue to put your faith in someone you barely knew, even though you wished you could. Unfortunately, it seemed social graces weren't Ginny Potter's forte; nor did she seem to care much for them. It was exceedingly plain from her bluntness.

"You didn't seem fine, you know, the other day," she stated baldly.

You were a little taken aback, and honestly, had no idea how to approach the situation. You were slightly inept at blatantly lying, but then again, keeping secrets was in your nature.

"That was just a misunderstanding," you said, sugar-coating the situation and trying to create a topic change. "how long do you think it will be until they notice that we're gone?"

"A while," she said, turning her head to face you, a worrisome, intense look written across her features. "You can tell me, you know. I know there's no one else for you to tell."

"I'm sorry," you stuttered, tripping over her words which were slow to reach your brain. "I have nothing to tell. It was simply-"

"Yes, a misunderstanding. I heard you the first time," she said almost irritably, shoving her red hair behind her ears, "and I don't believe you."

A kind of unprecedented shock was written plainly across your features. No one had ever had the audacity to be so plain with you. It was so disconcerting and uncomfortable, but it only encouraged the unspoken words to bubble to the surface.

"I'm sorry?" you squeaked, coming out in a near-whisper.

"Look, I know no one has probably ever confronted you about this, but I knew Malfoy – sorry, Draco - in his school years," she begun again, undeterred by your shocked expression.

"I still couldn't say that I like him in the slightest, but when I saw your expression the other day, well, I worried about you. Slightly strange because we hardly know each other, I know."

"I-I," you stuttered, "well-"

"To be honest, I've never been good at skirting around the  _ bullshit _ of social graces. I guess that's sort of clear. I'm not trying to impede on your personal life, believe me, but I suppose I'm the sort of person who believes that a woman like yourself ought to be treated properly, and the other day, well, it just didn't seem like you were," she explained, pausing heavily between words.

"Draco," you began, a little calmer, "treats me fine, I mean, his irritation is sort of warranted every now and again."

She looked incredulously at you, "I want you to tell me if he's hurting you Astoria, no one deserves to be treated like that."

"What?" you exclaimed, hand jumping to your mouth. "No! It's not like that, I promise!"

She cocked an eyebrow disbelievingly, and you pulled her hand to stop walking, turning to face her.

"I swear to Merlin! Draco, he would never hurt me like that," you said solemnly. "He- well, he may not be the most loving of husbands, but god no, he would never harm me."

"My apologies then," she said, turning back to walk, "only, he seemed very cold towards you, you know? I'm not used to seeing that in a relationship, perhaps I am biased by my own experiences."

"Experiences?" you asked, probing for an explanation.

"Well, you know, with Harry."

"Tell me about him," you asked, feeling all niceties had somewhat gone down the drain by now.

"Well," she began, "It's sort of difficult with all the notoriety, but it works. Harry  _ understands _ me, you know? It's okay for me to have a Quidditch career, because he's always wanted me to chase what I want. I'm spoiled with understanding."

"But what about looking after him? What about house-work and all that? Surely Harry needed someone to tend to him after the- well, after the war."

"Of course," she said gently. "But we all have  _ scars _ Astoria, it doesn't mean we can't go on to achieve things. The past shouldn't stop us from moving to the future."

"But isn't that  _ hard?" _

"Bloody hard," she noted cheekily. "But it's still important to get on with things."

"So, you played Quidditch?" you said slowly. "But didn't that take you away from your husband for long periods of time?"

"Yes," she conceded, "it was hard. But he understands; I had to do something for myself, prove that I could be something other than just Harry Potter's wife."

"Did you?"

"Naturally," she smirked, "I was brilliant."

There was a pause as you thought about what next to ask. Hearing about the lives of others was a luxury you didn't get too often. Hearing about a life of someone who has half interesting was a downright rarity. In all honesty, the other woman intrigued you.

"Why did you stop? Playing Quidditch I mean," you began again.

"Children," she smiled softly, the corners of her lips picking up in contentment, "and Harry of course."

"And he was alright with that?" you asked, "when you decided to have them?"

"We decided together, of course," she said, looking slightly confused.

You felt your stomach fall a little, with guilt. In a way, you had forced the pregnancy on Draco, and speaking to someone else about it, even hypothetically, made it seem all  _ wrong. _

"Oh," you said, feeling a little stupid, "naturally."

"Does Draco- well, does he love you?" she asked quietly, searching your eyes for an answer.

"I," you began, feeling your throat choke up in trepidation, "I think so."

"I see," she remarked, face contemplative. "And is that enough for you?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"It used to be," you replied, surprised by your honesty. "But circumstances have changed, and now, I'm not sure it is."

She nodded, as if to agree, and the pair of you carried on walking in silence for a while.

"Should we return now?" you asked, looking up to see the sky darkening.

"If you wish," she smiled comfortingly, "the drinks ought to be wrapping up soon anyway."

You took her arm, and felt the twist in your stomach, as she transported you back to the box.

~.~

"Astoria," he said, finding you in a matter of seconds after you had walked in the box door, "where on earth have you been? I've been wanting to leave this bloody thing for an hour now and you weren't even-"

"I was on a walk," you said coolly, finding the bluntness of Ginny Potter had somewhat rubbed off on you.

"Yes well, can we please go now?" he asked, holding out his arm for you.

"In a minute," you said, as he cocked a blonde eyebrow in surprise. "I must say goodbye to someone first."

Feeling a sort of thrill at dispelling the meekness with which you usually followed in the presence of others, you strode away from him purposefully to clasp Ginny's hand again in your own.

"We must have tea next week," she insisted. "I'll owl you."

Feeling strangely like no was not an answer she would accept, you smiled graciously and returned to the arm of your husband, standing with a disapproving look on his face.

"Really, Astoria?"

"Really, Draco."

~.~

He stalked off to the library in obvious discontentment after you apparated home. You let him go because, something Ginny had done or said had made you realise you ought not to be scurrying after him, begging for approval. It was like your pride had been somewhat restored.

You thought that your strength was evident from the fights you'd had over the past month, or obvious from your immovable stance on the pregnancy. But that wasn't real strength, you realised, that was just stubbornness. You could argue to your heart's content, but you were still desperately seeking Draco's approval and recognition, and still abided by his archaic, unspoken rules.

Leaving the house without him, for one, was something that Ginny would definitely not stand. Or fraternising with people he didn't particularly care for. It was time for you to be your own person, and then perhaps you could be something  _ more _ than Draco Malfoy's wife.

He emerged, two hours later for dinner. You'd swiftly thrown a roast in the oven and steamed some vegetables, setting them out on the table for him.

"Where's your plate?" he asked, when she'd set for one.

"I've already eaten," you replied honestly. It was eight o'clock for Merlin's sakes and being pregnant had encouraged you to eat far more than you usually did. It seemed like the baby was hungry  _ all the time. _

"Without me," he stated, his face growing stony.

"I was hungry, and you were…absent."

"You might have called me."

"I was busy."

"Clearly."

You sat in silence for a few minutes, broken only by the scrapes of his fork on the plate.

"So," he began again, "Ginny Potter is you're new  _ confident _ ?" It sounded both degrading and sarcastic.

"She is a friend," you stated, hoping you sounded more convinced than you felt, holding your head high.

"Well, let's hope Potter is getting a kick out of this then," he sneered, dropping his fork and knife, "knowing all my personal details will surely satisfy his endless curiosity."

"It's not like that, Draco."

"Of  _ course _ it isn't, Astoria," he replied, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

You tried not to rise to the bait. "I don't want to argue about this Draco. She's an acquaintance, that's all."

"You could have chosen someone less controversial," he grumbled, but never-the-less dropped the issue.

~.~

You found him in the sitting room after dinner, swirling the scotch around his short glass. He was watching the half molten ice blocks spin in the amber liquid, as he softly rotated his wrists, evidently deep in thought.

You weren't really sure why you decided to find him. You weren't going looking for him, and two hours previously you'd insisted you weren't simply going to follow him around the house, but you were lonely and simply, he was the only company you  _ had _ just then.

He looked across at you pensively; taking a sip from the glass and placing it gently back on the table. A small sigh escaped his lips, although it didn't sound like exasperation.

"What is it Astoria?" he queried, folding his hands across each other on his knee.

"Nothing in particular," you replied, trying to look nonchalant. "I just fancied some company."

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought my company was no longer enough for you."

"Well, you cannot expect me to be content with just one relationship, could you?" you said, a little more defensively.

He sighed again. "I had hoped it would be."

"Well, you have Blaise don't you, and Gregory?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"Well then, don't I deserve to have friends as well?"

"This isn't simply about what you  _ deserve _ , Astoria. Besides, you have Daphne. I never had siblings."

You snorted in annoyance. "That hardly seems  _ fair _ Draco."

"Unfortunately, life isn't fair," he said, stressing his growing irritation.

You clenched your jaw derisively and summoned the bottle of whisky. You were rarely a drinker, but if this was going to turn into a fully-fledged argument you were going to need some artificial courage.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, standing up as you uncorked the bottle.

You glared at him in reply, lifting the bottle to your lips. It was a challenge, and you revelled in it.

"Where is this coming from? Stop it!" he demanded, plucking the bottle hastily from your hands, sloshing a bit of whisky over the carpet in his hurry.

You felt a surge of anger. It wasn't  _ fair _ that you couldn't engage in half the behaviour he did. You couldn't have friends, you couldn't leave the house, and you couldn't bloody have one drink, could you? Ginny had only served to fire your resolve that day, and after the treatment you had gotten at breakfast this morning, all the anger in the world seemed like it was suddenly warranted.

"Planning to control my drinking and eating habits now too Draco?" you began, wringing your hands together in annoyance.

"Hardly Astoria. How could you-"

"How could I what? Have some semblance of control over myself?" you started again, anger brewing.

"No, it's about-"

"About social correctness? Well  _ you _ drink Draco, why can't I?"

"Are you  _ delusional,  _ I just said that-"

"Yes, well, sometimes I don't  _ care _ what you say! Sometimes I just want to be someone other than Draco Malfoy's wife, you know? Be my own person! Be Astoria!" you exclaimed, rising to your feet.

He looked a little wounded, beneath the outrage. Guilt tugged at your stomach, but you pushed it away.

"I want to be  _ more  _ than just your wife, Draco. I need to do something for myself sometimes, and this," you said, motioning to the whisky bottle in his hand, "is simply an indicator of how you can't stand to let me."

"It's  _ nothing _ of the sort," he replied, eyes narrow. "This, even superficially, isn't even about your right to drink Astoria, how could you be so blind?"

"Blind?" you said incredulously. "Well then  _ Draco _ , please enlighten me to what it is about?"

"Well, you can't-" he began, a little quieter.

"I  _ bloody well  _ can-" you interjected.

"Oh for  _ fucks sake _ !" he exclaimed, crossing the distance between you quickly.

You shied away automatically, expecting some kind retribution. The exclamation was, however, more in annoyance rather than downright anger, because instead of shaking you up, he placed one hand on the small of your back and drew you into his embrace.

It was lovely, it really was. The familiar smell of his cologne and the expensive cloth of his robes which you sunk your face into comfortingly greeted you like an old friend. The warmth of his hand and chest, tender through your own robes soothed your anger like water on a flame. You felt the irritation flicker and die inside your chest, replaced by the frantic beats of your heart.

Closeness was something you treasured. It was also something you never seemed to get very often.

Stepping back for a minute he placed a finger under your chin, and lifted it up to meet his eyes.

"Are you going to listen to me now?" he asked, smirking slightly at your meek expression.

"No," you replied, attempting to sound defiant, but it came out rather weak.

"Well," he began, the smirk still reaching over his features, "I might just have to make you."

"Go on."

"You can't drink when…well, when you're  _ pregnant _ can you?"

Your breath caught in your throat in surprise. You certainly hadn't expected that response, and in all honesty, you hadn't even thought about  _ that. _

"I-I," you began, a little taken aback.

"I thought so," he snorted, ruffling the back of your hair a little. "If there's going to be another Malfoy, I certainly can't have him deformed on account of my wife's alcohol problem."

Again, you looked up at him flabbergasted. You could hardly help the smile that was creeping onto your face. Starting vaguely at the corners of your lips and moving along horizontally across the pink flesh of your mouth.

"I didn't think you cared," you whispered, eyes wide.

He rolled his eyes theatrically. "Well of course I bloody well cared, Astoria. You're my wife for Merlin's sakes, what did you expect?"

"I'm not – well, you didn't – I mean, you didn't want  _ that _ ," you stumbled over the words hastily.

"Honestly, I didn't. But it wasn't as if you gave me much time to get used to the fact did you? I'm still… _ undecided _ , as to my feelings on the matter Astoria, but after I saw you with the Potter girl today, well, I got the feeling that whatever is coming for me, it's not stopping."

He cocked an eyebrow at your face, plastered with a broad, involuntary smile and released his fingers from under your chin, pulling you in to his chest again.

"It's going to kill me, I'm  _ almost _ sure of it."

"You need to stop being so  _ dramatic _ ," you teased, as he pressed his lips to the top of your head.

"You need to stop springing surprises on me."

"Wouldn't life be infinitely boring otherwise?"

"Perhaps," he sighed, and you yawned.

"Tired?" he teased, stepping back from you and taking your hand firmly.

You nodded softly, and squeezed his, still grinning.

"To bed then," he smirked.

"What about the whisky?" you asked. "Aren't you going to finish your glass?"

He flourished his wand, and levitated both the glass and bottle to the cabinet behind the sofa.

"I'll get them in the morning," he smiled softly, "after all, drinking without you would hardly be  _ fair _ would it, Astoria?"


	4. R is for Reconnecting

R is for Reconnecting

* * *

For rekindling passion that you once thought long lost.

* * *

You found out fairly quickly that your pregnancy wasn't typical. Atypical in the sense that you didn't spend hours of your life cuddling the toilet, or having a bucket attached to your person at all times. Atypical in the sense that you didn't explode in uncontrollable frustration at everything that didn't suit your needs or desires.

(You had suspected that all women weren't as volatile, but Daphne had always avoided pregnancy with that excuse. Merlin knew that she would have committed multiple homicides in the course of child bearing.)

Still, your calmness put Draco on edge a little. It was as if he was waiting for a volcano to explode. So, despite his noticeable improvements in attitude towards child rearing over the past month, you had seen much less of him than you would have liked.

He tended to spend more time in the study, working late hours. Then he rose early, around six am, to exercise (although his lightening-paced metabolism never required it in order to maintain his thin, almost fragile form), before showering and leaving for Blaise's offices with nothing more than a chaste kiss on your forehead. Despite these obvious attempts at avoidance, the dinner-time conversation had become markedly more interesting, and for that, you were thankful.

He was still prickly and moody, which was honestly the  _ same _ Draco that you had tentatively fallen in love with. But he was a little less detached, and in those fleeting moments of precious conversation, you began to touch on subjects that you never had before. It was as if he was reaching behind the black sheet of oblivion, and revealing parts of himself that had never been on display. You could always tell when something of the sort was going to come out, or be spoken of, because he said them quietly, and with long pauses, as if gauging for your response.

He mentioned Lucius, voluntarily, one night for the first time in a number of years. Perhaps for the very first time with you (and not in the context of their marriage arrangements). It was often difficult to differentiate between what you had heard from everyone else about Lucius and Draco's tainted relationship, and what he had confided in you. As his wife, that was sort of a shameful admission, however you supposed that lies and secrets surrounded all facets of Draco's life, and this was no different.

It also surprised you greatly that night, when he suggested that Narcissa would be interested in visiting to 'observe' your pregnancy. Of course, only Draco could phrase something so meaningful in such clinical terms. You suppose you inferred from that statement that he had bothered telling his parents of the news, which was in all respects, a monumental step.

So when no mention was made of Lucius, you decided to bluntly ask. In reality, there was little better way at getting through to Draco, and this method had served you well in the duration of your pregnancy (which had a long history of asking or telling Draco things he didn't particularly want to hear).

"And what of Lucius, Draco?"

"What of him?" he sighed, suddenly very interested in the peas he was pushing around his otherwise empty plate.

"He wouldn't be visiting?" You countered, unwilling to drop the issue.

"Astoria, you know that he and my mother have been separated for quite some time now," he stated, exasperation evident in his voice.

"I take it you didn't bother owling him?" you pushed, testing the waters. In all honesty, you weren't quite sure how far you could run with such a sensitive topic.

"No."

At first, it seemed that this had been a blunt ending to a potentially intriguing conversation, before he mashed a pea into the fine, white china of the dinner plate and softly spoke again.

"He doesn't deserve to be bothered with."

"Are you sure you don't want to just ask?" you pushed again. "He is  _ your _ father after all, Draco."

"An awful one," he remarked dryly, stabbing another pea violently with the end of his fork, "and I don't want him anywhere in the vicinity of my future son, lest he contract some kind of undesirable Malfoy traits in utero, which is all my father consists of."

You thought, fleetingly, of mentioning the almost valiant defence of Lucius that Draco had evoked, almost two months back when you were still arguing about the very existence of the child. Although it would have made an interesting point, you were content to steer clear of anything harping back to the angry outbursts, and instead played along with his dubious remark.

"I wasn't aware Malfoy traits were highly contagious," you smiled wryly, arching a thin eyebrow in his direction. "But then again, I was also unaware I was carrying a boy."

"You thought the last remaining heir to the Malfoy fortune was to be a girl?" he said, finally raising his eyes from the peas in front of him, with the smallest of smirks written on his thin face. "Unlikely."

"And why is that?" you probed, a look of mock shock crossing your features.

"There hasn't been a female child in over six generations," he countered.

"Well, that would shock Lucius all the more, would it not?" you teased.

"Very true," Draco remarked, raising his goblet in front of him. "To the Malfoy heir, who may well just be the most unusual one yet."

~.~

As it turned out, Narcissa was busy with social commitments for another two weeks before she could arrange to come back to the Manor. So in the interim, you got to worry about ways to please the only woman that Draco had ever loved, as well as attend a scheduled Healer appointment at Saint Mungos, and trying to capture your elusive husband in the fleeting moments between work, sleep and study.

Capturing was proving the most difficult out of the three. Draco seemed to have stuck to his routine well. You had an issue with that, and it wasn't due to the fact that there were urgent matters to discuss, or you wanted to gain more valuable bonding time. You valued your solitude as well, which was partially why you enjoyed living with Draco.

It was due to another urge that you had found to be the hallmark of your pregnancy. It wasn't gut wrenching nausea, coma-inducing fatigue or a temper that was quicker to flare than an incendio charm. It was another, rather embarrassing urge, which involved vivid dreams which made you wake with hot flushes, and otherwise want to rip the expensive suits off Draco's thin frame.

Of course, he was overwhelmingly oblivious to any of that, due to his patterns of avoidance, which left you high and dry and  _ increasingly frustrated _ .

So when his inconceivably accurate body-clock woke him at six am, you were careful not to fall back asleep. Instead, you rolled over, propped your head up with one arm, and gazed at him sleepily as he changed into his loose exercise shorts and dug around in a drawer, before cursing and  _ accio _ -ing his grey jumper.

"Have you ever considered that perhaps you stick a bit too strictly to routine, Draco?"

"Go back to sleep Astoria," he said, although there was no cold commanding tone to his voice, and his features twisted into a small smile.

"I'm...not…sleepy," you protested, through two, unconvincing yawns.

He smirked, sitting down on the bed next to you as you lay back on the silky smooth sheets. You tried valiantly to keep your eyes open but six was far too early for a pureblood princess brought up on luxury and a late-night lifestyle.

"You've convinced me," he murmured softly, although the sarcasm ran rich through his tone.

Predictably, he leant over to kiss your forehead, and really, that's all the encouragement you needed. The warm, surprisingly soft body and the musky, morning scent seemed so enticing to a woman who's every sense seemed to be in overdrive.

Instinctually, your hand found its way out of the tangle of bed sheets and onto the nape of his neck, softly willing him towards you. He startled at the touch, and began to raise his eyebrows quizzically, but you took full advantage of the fact that his head was mere inches from your own, and pressed your lips tentatively against his for just a moment, gauging his reaction.

(After all, your desires might have been driving you absolutely insane, but you still half-expected rejection, even after Draco's change of heart.)

When you pulled away, you were surprised to see that his eyelids had fluttered closed for a moment, as if he had enjoyed your closeness. When the mesh of light brown lashes opened again however, the strange hue of blue and grey stared back at you with an edge of disappointment, which was coupled with a heavy sigh.

"Astoria, my mother is visiting today. Did you forget?"

"No," you replied. If you were truly honest, the date had played in your mind for weeks, however  _ some things _ absolutely had to be dealt with, and couldn't be put off until Narcissa had found time in her overfilled schedule.

"Why does it matter right now?" You pressed. "She doesn't arrive on our doorstep for another nine hours."

"Well, don't we have things to do?" he replied, as if you should be preparing the whole of the morning, and early afternoon, for this seemingly momentous occasion.

"What do you anticipate, Draco, is going to take me nine hours to perfect? Did you forget we still have the services of at least two house elves who maintain this entire residence?"

"I might as well have, since you insist on cooking all our meals yourself," he muttered, sitting up again on the edge of the bed, and avoiding your gaze.

"I thought you liked my cooking," you protested, feeling a bit hurt. "At least, you said you did."

"Well sometimes I wouldn't mind you allowing Sampy in the kitchen every once in a while," Draco grumbled again, although it sounded ridiculously petty. It crossed your mind that perhaps he wasn't quite sure what to do with you, but you didn't push him. Your relationship had undergone some fairly radical changes in the past couple of months.

"Why can't you just stay with me this morning then," you reasoned, sitting up on the pillows. "You know, to prepare me for the answers I must give to satisfy your mother's childrearing concerns."

"Are you a pauper or diseased?" He questioned.

"No," you replied, slightly confused.

"Then I'm sure Mother will find you satisfactory," he retorted, a slight smile playing on his lips. He raised himself off the bed to find his shoes, but you managed to grab the slack of his jumper and tug on it playfully.

"What if I said I absolutely  _ needed _ you to stay."

"Then I would ask, whatever you would you require at six in the morning on a Sunday, unless it was to begin preparations?"

"You ask too many questions," you replied. "Can I not just show you?"

It was a bold question, but the unintentional, sleepy innocence sweetened it. Perhaps someone with more Gryffindor traits would have missed the subtle hints, but you certainly did not expect Draco to. Slytherins possessed that inexplicable ability to read people's hidden agendas, which is probably how they kept themselves out of trouble so often. A Head of House who had a blatant bias towards his own students probably helped in that regard, too.

You felt like it was one of those risks which could either pay off considerably, or leave you feeling painfully rejected. You had never really attempted to seduce him before, if the truth be told. When it came to anything remotely sexual, Draco was passionate and aggressive, yet painfully irregular. This irregularity had never bothered you so much as it did now.

"Show me what, exactly?" he drawled, one eyebrow raised.

It was clear that you at least had managed to capture his attention, and despite his reply being a question, you knew he wasn't simply curious or surprised. Although this dance was new, and fairly impromptu, the compelling desire left any lack of confidence totally behind. You would play this game with him, and you would win.

"You have to play by the rules, Draco," you smiled, coyly. "Come here."

Your body, which had shed all of its sleepiness, was almost quivering with anticipation. Your skin was raised with goosebumps, and tingled, like it was desperate to be touched.

Surprisingly, he followed your command, throwing his shoes in the corner as he approached the bed slowly. Too slow, you thought. Far too slow.

Feeling somewhat animalistic, you launched at him before he could even reach the edge. Somehow, before you were even fully aware of it, you were on your knees, your hands had found themselves tangled in his hair, and your lips were roughly moving against his. The heat of your bodies together made you almost want to explode with  _ want _ , and you prayed to Merlin he wanted this too, because honestly you were enjoying yourself far too much to even remember to check if he was responding.

As it turned out, he was responding. Quite well, in fact. As you surfaced for much needed air, you noticed his hands were holding in the small of your back, pressing your bodies closer, despite the small bump protruding from your stomach. His mouth trailed its way down your neck, stopping just where the neck and shoulder met, and bit down, gently.

Masterfully sliding his hand up, underneath your loose singlet, to cup one of your breasts, he slid the pad of his thumb teasingly across the exposed nipple while continuing to gently suck the spot on your neck. Unintentionally, you moaned, arching your back.

"Draco, you need to lie down," you breathed, somehow managing to be coherent through the waves of pleasure sweeping your body.

"You don't like how that feels?" he teased, lifting his head from your skin for a second, before kissing his way back up your neck.

"No, I do but-" you began, before he lazily flicked his finger over your nipple again, and you completely lost your train of thought. You involuntarily moaned instead in response.

Breaking contact with your skin momentarily, in a very un-Draco-like way, he flopped himself onto his back next to you. Instinctually, you crawled over him.

Enjoying how he felt under you, you tested the waters by grinding your hips against his. His eyes fluttered closed at the pressure. Pressing your hands into his chest, you tried it again, feeling the heat between your bodies intensify. In an instant, you found yourself naked, before Draco shoved his wand back under the pillow.

"Didn't have time for the slow way," he smirked.

"Be fair," you reasoned, reaching for your own wand, and vanishing his clothes.


	5. P is for Perspective

P is for Perspective

* * *

For retail therapy. It’s far better reassurance than anything a boy can say.

* * *

Your week started with the maternity healer asking about sex. Balking at the question before realising the healer was speaking not of your sex life, but the sex of your unborn child, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment that you desperately tried to hide. You wished your overactive hormones wouldn't let your mind jump to such inappropriate and embarrassing things.

"No thank you," you said, bowing your head and hoping the healer would put the sudden redness in your cheeks down to the pregnancy glow. Fortunately she was busy studying the projection of the child in-utero and hadn't noticed.

"Forgive me," the woman in the white coat said softly, gazing intently at the hazy picture that was projected from the tip of her wand to just above your bare stomach. "But are you sure? Most new parents are always insistent by this point."

"Yes. I- I mean _we,_ want to be surprised," you corrected, smiling at the little black form in the projection. Then, feigning a frown, you added "unless it happens to be a blast ended skrewt in there."

Chuckling politely at your attempt at humour, the healer held the projection with her right hand while jotting a few notes down quickly with the quill in her left. "I can guarantee that your child is developing very nicely Astoria, with a distinct lack of skrewt-ish qualities."

~.~

Soft sun streamed through frosted-glazed windows as you stood in the changing room at St. Mungos, trying desperately to pull your usual under-robe shirt over your stomach. Twenty-four weeks had certainly been long enough to effect some drastic physical changes upon the usually svelte and smooth figure you had maintained since your school days. It was terrifying, to say the least.

Of course, the swollen abdomen was the hallmark of pregnancy, and that was probably the least distressing. It was, after all, something which was growing a _new_ and exciting life, irrespective of how alien it felt on your body. What was far more confronting was the additional curves and weight you had never had to carry before, elsewhere on your frame.

The familiar small and pert breasts, which had never drawn the male attention that most of your other friends had experienced in puberty, were now creating an overflow of cleavage in your too-small bra. In an attempt to alleviate the discomfort you'd tried to use an enlargement charm on your favourite blue one, only to find that the charm completely ruined the proportions, rendering it completely unwearable. In the interim, you'd resorted to stuffing your new, and comparatively voluptuous top half into your old ones as best you could, and wearing robes which were too loose to notice the difference.

The result of this, however, was just to make you look sack-like and dumpy, and _Merlin_ , that depressed you more than the additional curves which had sprung up over your thighs, hips and face. Your hips were distinctly wider and softer. A few small, yet painfully noticeable stretch marks patterned the ivory skin around your chest and upper thighs. The latter were also bulkier and heavier, and your old skirts which had hugged your form were now too tight to get up to your waist (where they undoubtedly wouldn't have been able to fasten, anyway). It was all a little overwhelming, for someone who had never felt distinctly uncomfortable in their skin.

Daphne, who had visited a week back, had made some completely obvious comments on it, and nothing had made you feel worse. It was as if before she had opened her mouth you may have hidden it from yourself and refused to believe that your body was any different. You might have just avoided the mirrors in the Manor like a spider from a basilisk. Unfortunately, the scenario was more reminiscent of a werewolf and the full moon, because no matter how hard you tried now, given Daphne's (almost gleeful) running commentary on how _different_ you looked, and how much _fuller figured_ you'd become, you couldn't help but unwittingly catch glimpses of yourself in any reflective surface. Dessert spoons had become a nightmare. Bathrooms, a certain breakdown. Showering had become increasingly difficult - having all the lights turned out meant you either had to grope your way blindly around the room or have your wand accompany you into the stream of water.

To make matters worse, the five days that Daphne had insisted on staying coincided perfectly with Draco's two week long stint in Oslo, where a convention for wizarding business practices was apparently more important than saving your pregnant wife from certain ridicule by her older sister. Now you thought about it, Daphne had probably planned that on purpose, for it was common knowledge that Draco and Daphne had seen eye to eye just about as well as a Slytherin would with a Gryffindor. Even during the time before the fall of the Dark Lord, when the Malfoy name could afford you as many admirers as you could wish for down in the dungeons, Daphne had always scorned Millicent and Pansy's adorations. Draco, in her opinion, was nothing more than a moody recluse. Changing Daphne's opinion of oneself was an insurmountable task, and even after their wedding, Draco had never made much of an attempt to show her anything remotely more than acknowledgement.

And now, with her departure, you were left to reflect on the depressing state of your physique alone. On the one hand, pregnancy had indeed made your skin feel dewy and fresh. On the other, pregnancy had ruined your self-confidence, if you had much to begin with at all. It was a certain fact that you _needed_ to buy new clothes. But on the other hand, the thought of trying things on made you want to immediately disapparate – something which the Healer had, but five minutes ago, instructed you to discontinue. Apparently the risk of splinching was four times higher in pregnant women than seventeen-year-old new licence holders.

~.~

She stumbled upon you again in Diagon Alley as you were staring, panic-stricken at the robes in Madame Malkins. This was the second time today you'd attempted to buy new, more accommodating clothes. The anxiety of it all had made you suddenly remember a whole host of other things you really didn't need to buy elsewhere, every time you took a meaningful step towards entering the shop door.

Thankfully, it seemed as if life had decided to make you a magnet to the red-haired witch who had decisively grabbed your arm and led you into the Leaky Cauldron for a pumpkin juice and a heart-to-heart. Predictably, as it always seemed to be with Ginny, social niceties were set firmly aside, and she frankly asked how you had found yourself resembling a statute out the front of a shop you'd entered at least two dozen times before.

Recounting your pregnancy-induced anxiety and realising part way through that you sounded like you'd been shopping all day under a particularly powerful confundus charm, you were relieved when she'd merely smiled sympathetically at the conclusion of your explanation.

"If it's any consolation," she offered, "my six year old niece, Victoire, informed me that I was probably giving birth to a mountain troll two weeks before Albus was born."

She laughed at your perplexed and slightly horrified expression. "Because, you know, I was so _huge_ ," she continued, "and apparently six year olds can be just as detrimental to your self-confidence as a full length mirror."

Praising Merlin for not being blessed with any young nieces or nephews (of which you were certain Ginny must have had at least ten), you decided that in Draco's absence, it surely couldn't hurt to ask for a bit of moral support. After all, Ginny was the closest person you had to a friend, and that included Daphne. The pregnancy news had been exciting to share with your older sibling, but you couldn't help but feel the news had sparked that competitive, jealous edge that you and your sister had always shared. It was as if Daphne couldn't bear to be bested at something which she was _supposed_ to have experienced first, irrespective of her assertions that she didn't want children. You knew she did, and had the tables been turned, you knew you would have acted exactly the same. The air of derision, the not-so-subtle comments and the chastising were markers of an attempt to cover up disappointment and envy. It was a family trait that you recognised well, and could hardly judge.

"I'll come with you," Ginny offered, shrugging her shoulders gently and snapping you out of your reverie. "I left the boys with Harry for a couple of hours – I needed at least that long outside of the house to resist clinical insanity."

She smiled conspiratorially, like you were now part of some exclusive club refuting the picturesque version of motherhood that Witch Weekly liked to portray (apparently Rita Skeeter's daughter had already achieved her post-baby body within hours of giving birth, thanks to Madame Mentir's _Baby Bump Banishing_ potion). And that was how, for the umpteenth time, you found yourself in a completely unimaginable situation with Ginny Potter.

~.~

"So," Ginny began, diverting your attention away from the mirror as Madame Malkin bustled around you, taking various measurements with a bewitched tape measure, "what pregnancy related atrocities have you committed this week?"

Seeing you balk at her expression, she smiled cheekily again adding, "I mean, how many plates have you accidentally blown up in misplaced frustration? How many times have you forgotten where you put your wand? How many times have you tried to leave the house without your shoes? I find my brain is a complete shambles around twenty weeks."

Flushing slightly at having to reveal the fact that you rarely left the house, and consequently never really lost your wand or misplaced your shoes, you resorted to answering the only relevant query.

"I've actually been banned from the kitchen lately," you shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I think it's the repetition of overcooked meat that's driven us to decide our house elf might be better placed to prepare meals."

You'd carefully placed an _us_ where there should have been a _Draco_ , but there was no need for Ginny to know how little you still exercised free decision-making in your own home. It had been a learning process to outstrip all life lessons you had formerly known, after all.

"A house elf?" Ginny raised her eyebrows inquisitively. Perhaps it wasn't as common as you had thought it was.

"It's been in the family for generations apparently," you muttered, feeling a little embarrassed. It hadn't been your intention to flaunt your financial status, but you had forgotten that very few families in Wizarding England still retained the services of an elf. Especially now that the war had changed so many opinions on the legitimacy of blood-purity and certain wizarding rights.

"Secretly," Ginny began, "I sometimes wish I had one. Only, Hermione would skin me alive for even considering it, she's been very… _vocal_ about the treatment of house elves since she was fourteen."

"Treatment?" you asked.

Ginny grinned. "You should have seen the society she created. I think its acronym was SPEW."

Laughter bubbled out of your lips involuntarily, and before you really had a chance to think about it, Ginny's tale about the elfish rights society had consumed the entire time it had taken Madame Malkin to finish her measuring and preparations. Assuring that the attire would be delivered to the Manor the following day, she ushered them quickly out of the shop and began hassling a small child who had been brought in by his mother for measuring.

~.~

"You know," Ginny began carefully, "I think pregnancy suits you far more than you think. I'd always thought you'd looked rather sallow and unhappy."

It was such a Gryffindor trait not to mince words, and Ginny's bluntness (albeit welcome), was always a shock to the system. You were sure your physical appearance had undergone a few drastic changes, but then, so had your life in general. Your physique was at the very tip of a very large iceberg of revolutionary things which had befallen you. Except they hadn't quite befallen you. You, or rather the being which grew steadily inside your womb, had been the catalyst for so much necessary change.

"Things have changed quite considerably since I ran into you at Flourish and Blotts," you agreed, a small smile etching itself across your features.

"I've noticed," she smiled back. "Tell me, how is that even now when you say you feel you lack confidence, you act as if you have far more than when we first met?"

"I suppose you rubbed off on me," you joked, casting a wry look in her direction.

"Then I take it you've demanded some respect," she said, half joking, but with a serious edge to her voice that was unmistakeable.

"Possibly. Your influence is rather undeniable."

The red-haired witch snorted with laughter, something which Daphne would have sneered at as _terribly uncouth_. You let yourself bask in the unconventionality of it all – the unlikely ally you'd made, the equally as ground-breaking change in relationship with your husband, the changes in your priorities and perception. It would have been overwhelming if it hadn't been so welcome. Feeling more daring than you had before you turned back to Ginny.

"Do you mind if we make one last stop?"

~.~

Ginny had taken you as a side-along back to the gates of the Manor. It was, on a day like today, less of an inconvenience that apparition wasn't possible within its grounds. The brisk sunshine on that week in April warmed your face and the spring air seemed to ignite some kind of productive inspiration. No sooner were you inside that you had unpacked all the shopping which was not awaiting delivery, placed everything in its assorted spots and tidied away the various bathroom items Daphne had borrowed during her stay.

One thing that did lay out on the bed was the new black bra which you'd stopped off last to buy. It _looked_ so pretty sitting there with its white ribbon edged detail and front-clasp that you couldn't resist buying it. Not to mention that it actually fit properly, and didn't look as depressingly plain as the other two maternity pieces that Ginny had forced you to buy.

('Trust me, you'll _need_ those').

Feeling like it would probably improve your mood anyway, you swiftly undressed and put it on revelling in the soft, cool satin against your skin and the comfortable way it sat, its underwire flush with your ribcage. It would be a shame to waste such a pretty thing, you reasoned, picking up your wand and carefully braiding the front of your hair like Daphne taught you when you were eleven years old and petrified of looking plain at the sorting ceremony. Charming the small braids and remainder of your dark, brown hair into a polished chignon, you carefully wriggled the new, navy dress over your torso and sighed with contentment as it's bodice clung to your fuller chest and billowed out in the skirt softly towards the floor. It _felt_ good. Nervously, you stepped toward the bathroom.

The mirror reflected an evidently pregnant figure, but one who looked feminine and delicate, rather than plain and frumpy. You were hardly unrecognisable, the new clothes and better-fitted underclothes didn't make your old self seem a distant memory, but it was certainly an improvement. Despite the fact that the bodice felt like a second skin, and had a deeper V than you had ever worn, you felt much more at ease. Absentmindedly pinning a stray lock back into the mass of brown hair, you stiffened when you heard the distinct sound of the door closing downstairs, and Sampy's squeak as the elf ran into the entrance hall.

Wondering who would so boldly enter unannounced, you nervously stepped out onto the first floor landing to peering down over the balustrade. Your skin prickled from trepidation (or was it the cold? You weren't sure, because the light dress was hardly sufficient to keep you warm in April), as you saw Sampy scurry away, a couple of recognisable black bags hovering behind her.

An involuntary smile threatened to flood your features, and you bit your lip firmly to stop your emotions becoming so plain on your face. If you were correct as to the identity of the bags owners, you were well rehearsed in the verbal dance that was about to ensue. The play by play of welcoming home, without admitting that you'd been missing him.

"How on earth did you pre-empt my arrival?" he said slightly frowning, staring up at you from the marble hall.

"Whatever do you mean, Draco?" you asked, a smirk playing on your lips. "I wouldn't have prepared myself differently if I did."

"I should hope you have," he replied, brow still furrowed, "that is far too little clothing for mid-spring. Are you sure you haven't got a temperature?"

"You would rather I wear more?" you teased, elbow resting on the silver-gilded banister as he ascended the stairs toward you.

"I would rather you avoid contracting hypothermia."

"Please Draco, you've been in Oslo for almost two weeks, if anyone has been worrying about hypothermia contraction, it should be you."

"I'm not the one with goosebumps," he pointed out, finally reaching the top of the stairs and running a hand up your forearm. It did nothing to dissuade the little bumps raised on your flesh, and if anything, the electricity of his touch simply sent your body into another wave of excitement.

"Why are you back early?" you almost whispered, feeling suddenly a lot less commanding. The truth was, the upheaval your relationship had experienced in the last five months had only served to make you miss his presence more intensely. Whereas previously you had revelled in his absences as a means for finally escaping the walls of the manor, now, you loved craved his touch and voice every insufferable day you had spent with Daphne.

"Blaise is insistent on trying to contract with a French firm for the supply of bubotuber pus," he sighed, seeing your nose wrinkle at the memory of the yellow, petrol-smelling material you'd had to manage in herbology lessons. "Yes, well he thinks he could produce a rather profitable acne treatment, but it relied on procuring the _French_ bubotuber properties."

You fought down the urge to grin at his look of disdain as he motioned for you to follow him down the hallway. Blaise could be a rather sanctimonious business partner, who relied heavily on Draco for the funding of his latest ventures. However, these ventures ordinarily paid off, and while Draco was technically unemployed, side-along business opportunities were an opportune way to invest some of his energy and keep the Malfoy name out of financial jeopardy.

It didn't mean that bubotuber pus was a necessarily _good_ idea however. Blaise had been known to spectacularly fail on the odd occasion, something which Draco was at pains to point out whenever a new scheme was launched requiring a particularly high sum of galleons.

You followed him into the bedroom, taking his cloak from him as he shrugged out of it. Realising you had left your wand on the bathroom bench (so there was _some_ merit in the forgetfulness affliction Ginny had been telling you about), you hung it up without magic on a stray coat hanger on the back of the bedroom door.

"I take it the French bubotuber company wasn't satisfied with the proposal?" you prompted, turning back to face him.

"They weren't satisfied with the proposal coming from me," Draco sighed, untying his black shoes carefully as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Apparently Malfoy funding is acceptable, as long as they don't have to deal with an actual Malfoy."

"I would have thought it would be far less dignified to deal with people so invested in bubotuber pus," you replied, trying to alleviate the hopelessness which sounded in his voice.

"Yes well, I left Blaise to deal with them on his own" he responded, amusement lacing its way into his tone. "I hope they give him a plethora of samples. Speaking of which," he added, standing up off the bed, now shoeless, "I brought something back for you."

He summoned Sampy, who appeared in a loud pop, and instructed her to bring back the gift in one of his black bags. You sincerely hoped it had nothing to do with their business venture. When Sampy reappeared with a small, silver box you took it deftly from her hands before she once again disappeared.

"I hope you realise that I don't require acne cream," you said, raising an eyebrow at your husband who was leaning against the dresser, trying to appear bored and nonchalant but actually giving off an uncharacteristic air of nervousness. You sat down on the side of the bed, the box feeling heavy in your hands.

"Pity," he smirked. "I suppose we could always save it up for when our son hits puberty."

"It _might_ be a girl," you replied, narrowing your eyes and momentarily forgetting about the box in your hands. "Anyway, with our genes it will surely enjoy nothing but permanently clear skin."

"It will certainly _not_ be a girl. Did you not ask the healer this week?"

Surprised he had even remembered your appointment, you balked slightly at the question. "I said we wanted to be surprised."

"I despise surprises, Astoria."

"Only because you can't appreciate delayed gratification, Draco."

"Speaking of which," he retorted, narrowing his eyes in irritation, "can you please stop tormenting me and open your gift?"

Rolling your eyes playfully, you prised the lid of the box open.

On the velvet inlay of the box lay a silver necklace, not as brightly reflective as your other silver jewellery, but rather artistically weathered, as if it were very old and delicate. The pendant was an indescribably intricate design of swirled silver, twisted together to form a shape which was something in between a flower and a clover. From its fine strands dropped three silver tear drop shapes, somewhat like tiny spoons, which reflected the sunlight.

"It's called sølje," Draco interjected, sounding a little apprehensive. "Blaise tells me it's some kind of traditional Norwegian design."

You played with the dangling teardrop shapes in wonder. It was far too unique to be something commercially-minded Blaise would have suggested, you knew as much.

"The muggle shop keeper who sold it to me told me in the past people used to believe it repelled trolls," he continued, a smile playing on his lips. "She was purely speaking historically of course, but I thought that perhaps you'd like the additional protection regardless. From what I hear, this place is overrun with them."

You smiled. "As a matter of fact, I was dealing with one merely three days ago by the name of Daphne. Apparently it foresaw this gift and immediately packed off back to her doting, law abiding husband in London."

"A shame," Draco retorted, nerves apparently dissipated and an air of feigned disappointment lacing his tone. "I'm sure _darling_ Daphne misses my company almost as much as Theodore."

"She did mention something about you, now you mention it…" you grinned mischievously.

"Was it anything particularly derisive?" he asked. "Or is it a repetition of the thinly veiled bad-blood spiel we get every Greengrass family gathering?"

"More of the latter," you began, "only this time she got caught saying it in front of the portrait of Abraxas. He didn't seem to agree with her point of view."

"You wouldn't have had a hand in that unfortunate choice of location would you, Astoria?" he replied, laughter bubbling on the edge of his voice, as no doubt he imagined the scene of ancient, senile Abraxas confronting Daphne Greengrass on the finer points of Malfoy pedigree.

"But I was so _sure_ I'd left the spare towels in the second drawing room," you responded, placing the necklace down on the dresser and reaching a hand out toward him. Clasping his firmly in your own, you tugged him playfully toward the bed, collapsing down on it in a much undignified fashion.

"It really is beautiful," you whispered, finding yourself in intoxicating proximity to his pointed face, "even if it does repel my sister."

"I think that makes it all the more desirable," he murmured, flipping you onto your back and pressing his lips to the side of your neck, feathering it with light kisses. You closed your eyes involuntarily and relished the warm pleasure radiating through your body.

"No vanishing this time," you warned, catching his eye as he lifted his lips from your skin momentarily.

"Are we going to leave your clothes on?" he asked, frustration evident in his tone. "I have to object, Astoria."

"Delayed gratification, Draco," you chided, as his impatience mounted.

"I _hate_ surprises," he repeated, a low moan emitting from your throat as he bit softly on the juncture between your neck and shoulder. Swiftly, with one hand, he had managed to unbutton the top of your dress and, all too willingly, you allowed it to be tugged off over your shoulders.

Smirking at your recently purchased, silky back undergarment, which now felt oddly restrictive, he appreciatively ran a teasing finger across the top of the fabric, causing more goosebumps to spring up on your chest.

"But Astoria," he murmured, unclipping the front clasp, "why on earth would something designed for _delayed gratification_ be so easy to dissemble?"

The offending material was thrown ungraciously to the floor, as he devoured you again.


	6. I is for Involuntary

I is for Involuntary

* * *

For good people with bad habits.

* * *

You had taken several steps inside the entrance hall of St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries before you realised that you were alone. You looked back to see Draco staring a little blankly behind the doors which separated the outer entrance with the cavernous hall, looking uncharacteristically apprehensive. The veneer of self-assuredness which you had grown accustomed to seeing since the day you first met melted away before your eyes, framed by a comically useless perspex sliding door and a clinically white corridor.

Arranging a neutral expression on your face and exhaling softly, you walked slowly (slow was about as fast as you could manage these days) back towards him. You realised it had taken you almost 30 weeks to get him to come with you to one of these appointments. It was a momentous occasion. Given how vehemently he had first rejected the idea of attending an appointment at St. Mungos, you might have been convinced he was allergic to healers.

"Draco."

His eyes twitched to yours as you approached, calling his name in what you hoped was a reassuring manner. He looked away instantaneously, eyes suddenly fixed to an invisible mark on the pristine, white wall.  _ Pride _ . Fittingly, it was a vice that connected you with him in as many ways as it put you at odds with each other.

The sliding doors dissolved as you stepped through the invisible wards, coming to face him in the empty corridor. You looked down at his hands, rigidly at his sides and took one of them gently in your own. His eyes focused on yours again, letting you clasp his hand, interlacing your fingers, in a way that was still foreign.

Tactile interactions like this had only recently become the new normal. In typical Draco-and-Astoria fashion, it had been an unsaid understanding that these seemingly mundane interactions were not part of your story. Like somehow the passionate, fiery and irregular interactions dispersed with polite indifference and a chaste kiss every now and again were  _ enough _ to sustain a marriage.

But apparently it only took seven months to change your world.

It had started with the fights, the teasing, the unexpected embrace, the occasional coital interaction which took you interstellar. But the real catalyst had been a kiss (as things most often were) when he'd stepped out the door in late April to apparate to Blaise's offices and looked back at you like he'd forgotten something. Not something unimportant in the mildly irritating way, but in a way that looked as if he'd left the Manor without it, Earth might have spun right off its axis. You were still processing his hesitation when you found him right in front of you, forefinger softly lifting your chin up and his lips pressing down hungrily onto yours.

It was probably the hormones running hot through your body, but you were so intoxicated by his unexpected closeness; the warmth of his hands; the light smell of his cologne and the urgency of his lips practically melting into yours, that you found yourself moments later wrapped around him (so much as was possible given there was a quaffle-sized stomach in between you). It was as if you were so captivated by the  _ closeness _ and the  _ spontaneity  _ and  _ urgency _ that you completely lost yourself in his touch. You couldn't have known how long that kiss had even lasted. It was as if it took all of your concentration just to remember to breathe.

Whether it was seconds, minutes or an eternity later, he had slowly broken off the kiss, smirking at the way your body had involuntarily reacted. Infuriatingly, and with no further word of explanation, he turned, walked swiftly down the gravel path and apparated outside the wrought iron gates. You were sure you were going to spontaneously combust.

Another night he came home later than usual (no doubt pouring over the lab reports prepared by the French bubotuber company) to find you sleeping on the couch. You'd tried to stay awake but sleep was a fickle thing these days - sometimes eluding you for hours on end and at others hitting you like a bludger to the head. You were in his arms by the time you stirred, carried up the staircase to bed. Faintly, you remember wondering how someone with so little body fat could possibly lift the equivalent of one and a half people, but then again, you might have dreamt the entire thing.

By early May he had abandoned his reclusiveness in the library all together and had taken to spending most of the weekend in your presence. One Sunday morning, whilst eating breakfast together, you had been picking at a croissant with your right hand, in a way very unbecoming of a Greengrass and most  _ definitely _ a Malfoy, when he had reached across the table. He grasped your left hand in his, squeezed it once and smiled at you over the top of the Daily Prophet. Smiled in a way that wasn't even remotely a smirk.

Later that week you'd been standing in the shower, eyes closed, warm water cascading down your shoulders and soothing the tightness in your lower back when his arms wrapped around you, sitting comfortably on top of your protruding belly and pulled your body flush against his. His lips dropped to your neck and kissed it softly, a hand reaching up from your stomach and lazily pulling your long curls to the side, leaving a prickling trail of desire that felt hotter than the water itself.

In a strange way, these new interactions felt more intimate that anything you had experienced before. There was unspoken things in those touches, the looks, the kisses, that had never existed. Longing, trust, affection. Something else that was deeper than  _ want _ and more significant than  _ lust _ .

Nevertheless, you had never taken his hand like this before in a public setting. Sensing his hesitation you gave it a reassuring squeeze before dropping it. His eyes left yours as his right hand reached into the pocket of his immaculately tailored trousers.

"I'll meet you in there," he said, and you could imagine his long fingers closing around the packet of cigarettes stuffed somewhere in there, disguised by an undetectable extension charm.

~.~

The healer had already run the required diagnostic tests by the time he entered the small consulting suite.

"Sir, you have to wait-" she began, plainly incredulous at seeing a seemingly random person enter while you were flat on your back, stomach fully exposed from the examination.

"He's my husband," you explained quickly, hoping that the explanation came out sounding more as an apology.

"My apologies," she said, speaking directly to you instead of him. It was clear from her appraising gaze of Draco that she was going to direct her irritation toward him. As one hand steadied the in-utero projection from her wand, the other pulled a chair out from somewhere behind her. "Please sit, Mr Malfoy."

He obediently sat at her direction, but his eyes didn't waver from the projection spilling out into the open space between you, a three dimensional replica of the contents of your uterus out for everyone to observe.

Taking one look at Draco's entranced gaze, the healer addressed him again. "Have you attended any of your wife's other prenatal appointments, Mr Malfoy?"

"No," he said simply, seemingly without thinking. There was no hint of hesitation in his voice, his eyes glued, captivated, to the sight before him. You'd never seen him look so intensely at anything in your life. An emotion prickled at your subconscious, and you recognised it incredulously as  _ jealously _ .

You found Draco difficult to read at the best of times. Unless he was displaying clear anger, derision or irritation, his cool expression could mean a variety of things. It was infuriating to see him staring so intently at something without being able to gauge his internal reaction.

The healer began taking him through the basic parts of the life that was projected from you. Where the head sat, the approximate location of the toes and fingers. She explained it had begun to grow fingernails and was developing lungs full of amniotic fluid. He acknowledged her words with the appropriate short acknowledgement until she mentioned something about 'tactile response.'

"Tactile?" he said, alarmed. He was suddenly very alert. "Astoria can feel him?"

The healer's eyes shot to yours with a look of bemusement.

"Astoria, I would estimate at the fetus' rate of growth that you have been feeling it move around for approximately twelve weeks now?"

"Approximately," you said in a small voice, feeling guilty without knowing exactly why you felt that sense of betrayal.

Draco tore his eyes away from the projection to look at you. His confusion was quickly hidden under the restored mask of normalcy. The aristocratic face was rearranged to reflect his usual benign indifference. You supposed he had never bothered to learn anything about the pregnant human condition.

"Have you not yet felt it move, Mr Malfoy?" the Healer asked, turning to face Draco.

"Not yet," he responded carefully. "But I have been travelling on business frequently so haven't been present for much of the last few weeks."

A lie, albeit a small one. The truth was, although the advances in your relationship felt lightning-paced, the intermittent touches were still so rare that it was unlikely Draco would have had the opportunity to feel the baby move, unless it had kicked hard whilst you had both been in bed. Sleeping, or otherwise.

"You should be able to feel it move quite regularly now," the healer explained. "Especially since it should be able to recognise your voices."

The mask flickered. "He can recognise  _ my _ voice?"

He said it more as a question to you, rather than the healer. His face looked as if his brain was reeling, trying to recount every swear word he had uttered in the last few weeks. Good luck, Draco.

The healer cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, the fetus can typically differentiate familiar voices at this stage. Which is  _ usually _ its mother and father." Clearly, the business trips had not impressed her. "If you have the time, you should try speaking around it and gauge any reactions."

The veiled criticism appeared to have little effect on Draco. You watched his gaze, transfixed on the life form in the projection.

"After birth, where are you planning to have the baby sleep?" the healer asked, snapping you out of your reverie. "We have a prenatal class on monitoring charms if you need assistance."

To be honest, you were yet to discuss this sort of logistical issue with Draco. Until this very moment you had presumed he would want the baby on the opposite side of the Manor at all times. Now, you weren't so sure.

"It's not something we have concretely established," you trailed off, hoping you sounded like you had progressed this issue further than you had. The healer didn't need to know you that you hadn't even thought about what it would sleep in, let alone where it would go.

She raised an eyebrow again. You had clearly convinced her.

"You'll need to start establishing these things sooner rather than later, Mrs Malfoy," she chided, "the fetus is slightly underweight, and as it is your first child, the likelihood of it being born premature is higher."

You nodded, absorbing the instructions. She flicked her wand to a stack of leaflets on a nearby filing cabinet and assorted four or five in front of you. In doing so, the projection dissolved and Draco appeared to return to Earth.

"These will give you a comprehensive guide of things you may need to prepare for birth," she said, circling a few key items on the leaflets with her wand. "I'd recommend starting with this one," she pointed to a green leaflet with a list of goods, "it contains the basic physical items you'll need if you haven't already purchased them." She looked at you pointedly.

"Thank you," you said ruefully, "I'm sure as a first-time mother I'm forgetting a lot of basic things."

Like every single thing you thought, staring down at the vast lists in front of you. Merlin, you had not anticipated how much you needed to accumulate over the coming weeks.

You stood with Draco to leave.

"Mr Malfoy," the healer said, addressing him as you turned to leave, "I also would be neglecting my professional duties if I didn't mention that now may be a good time to think about quitting."

"I'm sorry?" Draco shot back, evidently perplexed.

"Smoking," the healer replied, clearly able to discern the faint smell of cigarettes through his cologne. "For your benefit, mostly," she finished, turning her back as she filed her papers, wordlessly dismissing you.

You saw Draco scowl, and shove the packet into his pocket a little deeper.

**~.~**

Unfortunately for Draco, his newfound interest in your child had coincided perfectly with the healer's unsubtle recommendation to hurry up in the retail department. It did nothing to improve his mood.

He had flat out refused to visit any store in Diagon Alley (probably to avoid another chance encounter with any of his alumni), and insisted that the much less extensive range at a shop in the small wizarding village just outside Malmesbury. The store was quaint, assimilating perfectly into the architecture of the village, and everything inside it was about seventeen times the recommended retail price. This was a common affliction of living in wizarding Wiltshire where the net worth of your neighbours far exceeded the ordinary.

It was clear from walking up and down the aisle of cribs and bassinets that the outrageous price tags were reflected in the designs of the furniture. Plainly, these items were made for your average wizarding Prince. You wondered whether Draco had truly been raised in a gold-gilded bassinet, which some babies in northern Wiltshire clearly required.

"Is this a throne or a crib?" you whispered to him, as you tapped the gilded bassinet with your wand appraisingly.

His sulking expression lifted slightly, turning to face the offending item. He smirked.

"Don't you think he deserves a gold headboard carved with the likeness of Merlin?"

"Honestly, I don't understand how you seem to  _ know _ it's going to be a boy, Draco," you said, eyes narrowing in his direction, "maybe we should be going over to look at the dusted pink cribs."

He raised his eyebrows, looking infuriatingly self-assured. "You can if you wish, Astoria," he said lightly, "but you'll be wasting your time."

"And your money," you muttered, darkly.

He laughed softly in reply and continued down the aisle.

He ran his fingers along a wooden crib in the shape of a rowing boat. "Do you think we could cast him off in this on the Manor lake if he cried too much?"

"Maybe I could cast you off instead."

"I know how much you like the water," he replied, taunting you. "Maybe we should test you in it first."

You were about to express to him how greatly he was already testing you, but you stopped yourself. It appeared that the teasing had relieved his sulking about the cigarette issue and an irritating Draco was much better than a moody one.

"This is what we  _ need _ ," he said, directing your attention to the gaudiest crib you had ever laid eyes on. The baby blue egg-shaped bed was adorned by gold trimmings, false golden wheels and heavy drapery. It was evidently modelled on the ridiculous carriages used by the Beauxbatons academy.

"Do you think it comes with horses?" you whispered, voice rich with sarcasm.

"Do you think it comes with Veela?" He countered.

You scowled. "Do you think you might like to remain married to me by the end of this shopping trip?"

"You had better hope so," he smirked, implicitly reminding you that you could no longer apparate by yourself. "It's a long walk back to Salisbury."

"Prat."

You sincerely doubted anyone had called Draco Malfoy anything so childish, but you didn't care. Turning away from the carriage-crib you continued your quest down the aisle.

At the end, amongst the understated furniture (if anything in this store was understated at all, perhaps it was just less ostentatious than the rest) you found one you both agreed on. A plain, crib-esque crib in a rich mahogany. Something that would look at home in one of the various unused rooms in the Manor.

"We should get the matching chair," you suggested, pointing at a bewitched rocking chair that was slowly tilting back and forth.

He appraised it with a haughty gaze. "Why? It looks uncomfortable."

"Well it isn't as if you will ever sit in it, Draco."

"Why not?"

You stared blankly at him. "Well, are you biologically able to feed a child?"

He smirked. "Will he drink whisky?"

At your incredulous look he continued. "What if I want to hold him sometimes?"

"Babies are messy Draco; it wouldn't suit your aesthetic."

You imagined him for a minute precariously holding a baby in one hand and scrugifying his immaculate clothes with the other. You were surprised by his suggestion. You had imagined that child-rearing in the Malfoy household was very much left to the mothers. It would explain why Draco's relationship with Narcissa had endured despite it all, whereas his relationship with Lucius had burned amongst the wreckage of the war.

"You never know, Astoria. I might like him."

When you didn't say anything, he continued. "And perchance I do, I'm going to need something far more comfortable than  _ that _ ."

His eyes flickered to a large, leather sofa in a snowy white, sitting on the back wall of the shop. You followed his gaze, unspeaking. The revelation that Draco had not only accepted your unborn child's being but was actively seeking a parental role had rendered you somewhat dumbstruck.

Within ten minutes, he'd handed over a mouthwatering amount of Galleons for the sofa, the crib, a few throw rugs and the rocking chair and had arranged for its delivery the next week.

You followed him towards the store entrance, still unsure what to say or how to speak.

As you were about to exit he took your hand unexpectedly and pulled you over to a crib sitting at the front of the store. It was clear to you why this particular object was selling for a reduced price.

The crib was snowy white and adored with thousands of feathers. The headboard was in the shape of two enormous wings, covered in both fluffy down and substantial silky wing tips. You shuddered to think how many birds had to be sacrificed to make this atrocity.

"Buyers regret, Astoria?" he whispered, trying to provoke you.

"Definitely. A young Malfoy should always sleep in an animal graveyard," you shot back.

"It's rather morbid, isn't it?" he agreed, face bemused.

"Certainly for the birds."

"I was thinking more of a gravestone."

"I think it symbolises an angelic child rather than a literal angel, Draco."

"Angelic? Certainly not in Malfoy Manor."

"It would go perfectly in the dungeons."

From your peripherals, you saw him roll his eyes. "No Malfoy is ever going to be described as  _ angelic,  _ Astoria."

You reached your hands out towards your stomach to cover it with a look of mock outrage.

"It can  _ hear _ you," you hissed.

He scowled again.

~.~

It wasn't until a week or so later that you found yourself startled from sleep by a cool hand on your stomach. Judging by the hand placement and the corresponding kicking inside you, you were apparently the only person in this room who kept to a normal sleeping schedule.

You turned your face to meet grey eyes, contemplative beneath the blonde and brown eyelashes. You inhaled deeply. He smelled suspiciously of his cologne and cigarettes.

You wondered whether this was the first time he had covertly attempted to feel for signs of movement.

"Midnight snack?" you whispered, still groggy from sleep.

"It was the last one in the packet," he replied softly. "I'm not going to buy another one."

You snorted, disbelieving.

"It is," he insisted, narrowing his eyes at you. "We discussed it."

"Did we?" you replied, genuinely unable to remember the point in time where Draco Malfoy had promised to give up his enduring proclivity for nicotine.

"Not with you," he replied, " _ you _ wouldn't have believed me." He answered your confusion by gently running his hand across you again.

You bit your lip in an attempt to keep the smile spreading across your lips. The thought of Draco having some sort of telepathic conversation with your unborn child was in equal parts endearing as it was terribly out of character.

"I'm glad that you listen to someone around here," you sighed with mock irritation.

"I do want to  _ try _ ," he said, barely audibly. Implicitly, you knew he wasn't referring to the cigarettes, or even speaking to you in particular.

You expected him to slip his hand away from you at any moment but he left it there, circling random patterns on your belly, as you settled into comfortable silence again. You let yourself be lulled by his deep, regular breathing.

"Are you scared?" he asked again after a long while, and you knew this time the question was directed to you.

"Terrified," you answered honestly. There was a vulnerability in his voice that you couldn't quite reconcile with his face, so you kept your eyes trained on the ceiling. "Are you?"

He hesitated, pausing to lay his hand flush against your warmth. He got a gentle kick in response but he didn't draw his hand away.

"I'm afraid of becoming what I don't want to be."

You let the words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. The truth was, you couldn't tell Draco he categorically wouldn't mirror Lucius in some ways. Not least because you had seen Draco emulate his father in a number of situations, and speak of him with a reverence that had only begun to falter in the last six months.

The Draco you knew and co-habited peacefully with (albeit ad nauseum) for the first year of your marriage had been almost completely replaced by someone else. Not a foreigner, but someone who had hidden deep within the hard exterior, and had never exposed themselves to you before.

"He won't know you, Draco" you said, relinquishing your insistence that the unborn child may, in fact, be a female. "You can be whoever you are comfortable being."

You knew there was a difference between what Draco  _ wanted _ and what he could tolerate from himself. He was never going to be completely unguarded, spontaneous and wear his heart on his sleeve. But you hadn't wanted that when you'd made the decision to tie your life so inextricably to his.

Tellingly, he retracted his palm from your abdomen and propped himself up on his elbows to face you. Your body reflexively shuddered from missing his touch and you almost instinctively reached out to grab his hand and put it back where it belonged. Instead, you turned your face on the pillow to look at his, searching his eyes for reassurance.

The grey irises pooled with doubt.

His free hand now reaching out to touch your cheek. "I need you to tell me what to do. How to  _ be _ ."

Your eyes prickled. The truth was, you'd been having the same doubts yourself. You had no idea how to be a mother. You'd been hoping it would all come to you in the progesterone-fuelled experience of birth like some religious revelation.

It was as if he reached into your mind and plucked the thoughts out of your head. "Not like that, Astoria. Not in a practical sense. I mean, how do I make him like me? As a father I mean."

Another question you really didn't have the answer to. In all honesty, you hadn't worried about the child liking  _ you _ . You had assumed that, for reasons of survival, it sort of had to like you. For Draco, it was another story.

"You liked your father," you said stupidly, wincing at your words. "How did that work?"

He swallowed, eyes flicking away from yours. He recoiled his hand from your cheek and twisted it into his hair. An action you had come to notice as reflective of his discomfort and anxiety.

"Did I? I don't think I can tell the difference anymore. Between truly liking him and appreciating him for the material things he gave me."

"You respected him," you said, with more conviction. That Draco respected his father was plain. Whether that was out of reverence or fear, you weren't sure. Lucius always appeared to have a firm grip on his son. A tight and inescapable mental leash.

"I suppose."

"That's not what you want for yourself?"

"Yes," he began, "and no."

He sighed, threading his thin fingers through his hairline and ran them through the crown to the nape of his neck. "I want something more than that."

"What do you want?" you whispered, reaching out boldly to lift his chin back to face yours. You could feel the palpable tension, the visceral anticipation in the pit of your stomach. You wanted to reassure him, to soothe him, to kiss him spontaneously and tell him everything was going to be fine. But that simply wasn't a Draco-and-Astoria thing to do.

He was quiet for a moment, then sighed deeply, resigned.

"He won't love me," he said. A statement, that sounded more like a question. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I am remarkably unloveable."

His tone was sarcastic, but there was an element of sincerity. Hurt, even. Despondency.

You didn't even think about what you were going to say before the words tumbled from your lips. An involuntary reaction, part in reassurance, part by reflex. Wholly grounded in the truth.

"I love you."

You didn't have time to prepare yourself for rejection, because it had all happened so fast. But suddenly you were overwhelmingly aware of what the appropriate response to your unexpected declaration should have been. In that moment, you didn't need him to tell you that he loved you, you just needed him to acknowledge it.

As it happened, you didn't have time to process his expression, because in a matter of seconds he had propped himself up into a half-seated position, his lips devouring yours, one hand threaded into the dark curls at the back of your head, pressing your face against his in urgency.

Somewhere in the still-functioning part of your brain, you supposed he'd never been one for words. A physical reaction was far more authentic.

Your heart soared. He had  _ liked _ it.

The tension dissolved into electricity; into pure excitement. Your body responded, chest arching slightly towards him as he continued to move his lips hungrily, tongue lightly brushing yours. His hand slowly migrated from the nape of your neck, tracing a line down over your collarbone and dangerously close to the top of your camisole.

When he pulled his face away you moaned, reaching a hand pleadingly towards him.

"Don't be greedy," he smirked, clearly satisfied with your reaction.

You furrowed your eyebrows, hand dropping to cover his on your cheek.

"If I say it again do I get more?" you challenged, biting your lip in a way that you hoped looked alluring and not ridiculous.

"Perhaps," he responded, his eyes following his fingers as they gently flicked the satin strap off of your shoulder, exposing more of your décolletage. Without further prompting he gently lowered his face to your skin and placed feather-light kisses along the length of your collarbone as you shivered involuntarily.

"I love you," you whispered again, the words filling up your mouth with warmth now, desire flooding every living cell in your body.

"As I love you," he murmured into your neck, lips parting to press into the soft skin between your neck and your shoulder and making you forget everything else.


End file.
